Close My Eyes
by SocksForDobby
Summary: "Just close your eyes to it." It sounded easy, but with the threat of blackmail looming overhead, closing their eyes was anything but easy. Harry/Hermione/Ron. Post-War.
1. Going Back

**Title:** _Close My Eyes_

**Summary:** Months after the War ends, the Wizarding world tries to repair the damages. Some go to healers to have their war wounds cured; others just cover them with a plaster. Harry/ Hermione/Ron.

**Rating: M**

**Pairings**: Harry/ Hermione/Ron, implied Hermione/OMC

**Warnings**: Alcohol Use, Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Attempted Rape, Language, Oral Sex, Slash, Threesomes, Violence

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._

**Author's Note:**_ I realise this is a pairing that few like, but I wanted to try my hand at it, to see if I could pull it off realistically and likeably. I hope you will give it a chance. At 14 chapters, this story is nearly complete, and will not be left hanging; it will be posted in its entirety, being updated on a regular basis. I am looking for a beta, so if you are interested, please get in touch._

_I never ask for reviews, so will consequently never hold chapters "hostage" for them. I appreciate each and every one, however, and value your input and encouragement._

**Chapter One: Going Back**

It was peculiar to see Hogwarts from that side. In the past, he had always seen Hogwarts as an _impenetrable _fortress, well protected by the wizards and witches that made up the staff of the school. In the past, it had never occurred to him that his teachers were mere human beings, prone to mistakes, and sometimes made unwise decisions. It had never occurred to him that sometimes they were scared, too.

Now, seeing parts of the school in shambles, he had a different perspective. It was hard to have a child's perspective of anything as you watched wee Professor Flitwick try various charms on the Hufflepuff table, trying to get blood stains out. It was to hard look at the Great Hall and see rows of tables and benches, rather than see the rows of bodies that had been lined up months ago.

"Potter?" McGonagall prodded."Did you hear me?"

Harry blinked. He turned to see McGonagall standing by his side, waiting for his reply. "Um, yeah. Seventh floor, behind the portrait of Gunhilda Groosemoor. Password is…"

He stopped. What had she said the password was? He had done that a lot lately. He got so caught up in his thoughts and memories that he didn't hear people talking to him, or missed the tail end of speeches.

"'Bravery', Potter." McGonagall was tapping her foot.

Oh, that made sense. It was the Gryffindor Head's quarters. "Kind of an obvious password, don't you think?"

"If you're worried about Gryffindors breaking in and robbing you, feel free to change the password."

He wasn't worried about that. He was worried about Gryffindors coming in and dumping ice water on him as a prank. He was worried about members of his fan club, or the press, sneaking in and invading his privacy.

"I'm not taking your quarters, am I, Professor?" McGonagall had been Head of Gryffindor for many years.

"I am taking over as Headmistress. I now have separate quarters."

"Oh. So now you sleep in Dumbledore's quarters?" Harry regretted saying that as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

McGonagall's lips thinned. "Potter, I do believe you have lessons to plan, and a classroom to claim."

"Right." Harry hefted his trunk and began pulling it behind him.

"Levitation charms, Potter! For goodness' sake, you're a teacher now!"

Harry hadn't thought about that. Magic wasn't usually his first instinct. When it came to things like lifting, moving, hefting, heaving, cooking, and cleaning, he almost always began the Muggle way. It was how he grew up. Using his wand wasn't on the forefront of his mind when Defence wasn't involved.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_!" He levitated the trunk out of the Great Hall.

The War had changed a lot about Harry's world. So many people had been killed, maimed, or were otherwise indisposed. Professor Snape, the former Potions teacher, former Defence teacher, and former Headmaster, had been killed by Voldemort's snake. Remus Lupin and his wife, Tonks, had both been hit by the Killing Curse. Moody was dead. Fred was dead. Hedwig was dead – it was the first time Harry went to Hogwarts that he wasn't lugging a bird cage.

"Ah, Potter, good to see you." Slughorn greeted Harry in the Entrance Hall.

"Good to see you, Professor." Harry continued his way to Gryffindor Tower.

Professor Slughorn had agreed to continue his duties as Potions Master, now that the threat of Voldemort was not looming over his head. Since Professor McGonagall had become Headmistress, there was a new Transfiguration teacher, one Harry hadn't met yet. The Defence position was supposedly no longer cursed, but still no one wanted the job. They didn't trust it. They were wise, Harry supposed.

Harry was a lot of things, but not wise. When McGonagall had asked him to teach Defence – just for the 1999-2000 school year – he was unable to say 'no'. Had it been any other position offered, at any other school, he wouldn't have done it. But it was Hogwarts, and they needed him. The students needed him, to learn Defence, so that they could protect themselves.

There was no one better suited for the job than Harry. After all, Voldemort had been the best teacher of Defence there had ever been, and Harry had been his best student.

**o-O-o**

"Three Butterbeers, please."

"Two Butterbeers, one Firewhiskey. Just bring the bottle."

"Ronald!"

"It's a last hurrah; Hogwarts students can't bring spirits on the premises. Leave me alone, Hermione."

"Um, two Butterbeers and a Firewhiskey. We don't need the bottle." Harry compromised.

The Three Broomsticks hadn't changed much, despite the War. It was still the same as it had always been, to Harry. Nothing had changed, except Madame Rosemerta; she looked like death warmed over.

Not that his friends looked any better. Hermione had dark circles under her eyes, and was noticeably pale. Her hair, for once, was not bushy, but hung in limp strands. Her eyes were constantly red and swollen, but she never cried in front of Harry. Ron had made no mention of her crying in front of him.

Of course, Ron made little mention of anything these days. He ate, he drank, he had become, in essence, a complete arse. He had gotten worse when he got his NEWTs results back, telling him he had to repeat a year at Hogwarts, or take the offered at-home course. 'There is no fucking way I'm going back there as a student,' he had said.

Harry could sympathise. He had a feeling that he hadn't passed his NEWTs either, but had been given a free pass because he was Harry Potter. And to be fair, his essays and theory work could be called 'mediocre' in most subjects. Ron was allergic to the word 'studying'.

"You drink too much, Ron," Harry said. "It'll destroy your hearing."

"His liver, kidneys, and overall health. His hearing will be unaffected." Hermione corrected.

"Yeah, my liver. And all the smoking you're doing is going to kill you faster than my liver can shrivel up and die." Ron retorted.

Harry looked down at the cigarette in his hand. He couldn't really remember when he started smoking, oddly enough. At some point when they were looking for Horcruxes. It had made him sick the first couple times, but how it helped him relax now was worth it.

"Ron, you can't be hungover tomorrow. You will be expelled!" Hermione warned as Ron took his first sip of Firewhiskey.

"Well, that's my problem, isn't it? Bottoms up!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had spent their summers both together and apart. Hermione had spent the first few days following the Last Battle at the Burrow, helping with funeral preparations for deceased Order members. Harry had been busy at the Burrow, also, only he was hiding from reporters, journalists, and biographers. He had also been in charge of the body count, and involved in the decisions of how to dispose of Voldemort's body.

For once he had been involved in the decisions. _For once, a little too late._

During the time Harry had spent at the Burrow, he hadn't noticed Ron's Firewhiskey habit. He knew Ron liked Firewhiskey, of course, but had only seen him drink it every now and then, and never a whole bottle of the stuff at once. Only in recent weeks had Harry noticed that Ron was teetering on the edge of sober on a regular basis.

"He's not going on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow; he can sleep in." Harry took his glasses off and began wiping off the lenses with his shirt before remembering his wand. "He's gonna Apparate to Hogsmeade and walk from there."

Hermione sighed. "The habits you two have developed aren't healthy."

"Says Hermione, who's playing therapist." Ron challenged her. "Like _you're _therapist material."

While many wizards and witches were involved in psychiatric care, few were willing to make the effort to go to Hogwarts multiple times a week for therapy sessions. So many of the students had seen and experienced things at Hogwarts the previous year, and in their family lives. They needed psychiatric evaluations and care to continue their lives as healthily and normally as possible. Hermione, though not a trained therapist, had volunteered to talk to the students several days a week, when she was not at home with her parents or at her job at her local Muggle library.

Hermione flushed. "There aren't many magical people suited for the job right now! So many people have had their lives, their families, everything important to them ripped away! I am one of the lucky ones. I can help."

"How are _you_ one of the lucky ones?" Ron scoffed. "Everyone around you has died, your parents have their heads screwed on backwards, and that bloke you were with the other night wasn't _exactly_ a sea monster."

Harry didn't mention that the only reason everyone around Hermione died was because she was around him. "What bloke the other night? Did you two break up? Why does no one tell me these things? _Why_? What was wrong? I thought-"

They ignored him. "I'm one of the lucky ones because my two best friends made it. And I know as messed up as I am right now, they are just as bad, or worse. They understand it, and even if they complain, don't judge it."

Hermione had a very good point there. Harry's two best friends were alive, miraculously. And despite the fact that he smoked like a chimney, drew his wand at every little sound, and almost fell asleep as they spoke to him, they didn't judge him. They worried and even complained to him, but they didn't pass judgment on him. Like everyone else in the world would. And did.

Perhaps they were each one of the lucky ones.

A waiter sauntered over to them. He wore very form-fitting robes, and Harry was sure the waiter's apron was not made to accent that particular part of the body. "Would any of you like another one?"

"No, thanks," Hermione quickly said, before Ron could speak. "Not now."

"Are you sure? They're on the house for the three of you tonight." The waiter put a hand on his waist.

On the house? Harry hadn't been to the Three Broomsticks in quite a long while, but he had experienced that same sort of hospitality wherever he went of late. Everyone wanted to serve him, as thanks for killing Voldemort… as if he had had any other choice.

"Another Butterbeer would be great, actually." Harry didn't want to insult Madame Rosmerta by turning down her kind offer – he had learned that the hard way at a Wizarding establishment near Surrey over the summer. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Harry." The waiter sat Harry's frothy Butterbeer down slowly, before putting his finger under Harry's chin, bringing Harry's eyes to meet his. "Don't be a stranger."

The waiter sauntered off, much like he came, only turning around briefly to wink at him before offering a young couple some Ogden's Old.

Hermione snorted into her Butterbeer. "I think you have an admirer, Harry."

"That was bloody disgusting." Ron made a face. "He should be written up for that. Right in public!"

Harry clenched his teeth. He could feel his face burning, and hoped his friends assumed it was from embarrassment. His stomach turned into knots, feeling like ice.

Who was that guy? And how had he _known_?

Harry had, over the summer, come to terms with his sexuality. It had given him quite a bit of grief over the past several years, but he had been too busy worrying about Voldemort to worry about whether he liked men or women. However, with Voldemort dead and no longer having the Order of the Phoenix breathing down his neck, he was free to explore his options.

Rather than going back to the Dursleys over the summer when the Burrow became too much to bare, he had gone to Grimmauld Place. Permanently smelling like a wet dog and an exploded Weasley prototype, he had tried to clean the house up and make it his own. He could not shake the cold feeling from the house, and the eerie silent void, so spent more often than not trolling Muggle bars, where Wizarding reporters wouldn't look for them.

There he had tried out all his options. He had not had knowledge of gay lingo and codes, but quickly picked it up, His first time at a gay pub had been a real experience. A lot, if not all, the attention he got from girls in the Wizarding world was because of his status, not his looks or personality. But these blokes didn't know he was famous, wealthy, had three biographies out on him, and was in talks about a chocolate frog card. They just liked him for him, well, him.

Blokes, he found, were more than likely looking for a quick shag than girls were. Whether in the dirty loo, in the alley behind the pub, in the back of a cab, or in their flat, many were not out for an actual relationship. Which was fine – he needed all the sex he could get. It took his mind off Voldemort. After several orgasms, it even helped him sleep.

Justin (Harry didn't know his last name) had been most helpful in that. A very attractive man, several years older than Harry, he had guided Harry through a lot of the things gay men participated in. He had been the first bloke Harry had given oral sex. He had encouraged Harry to 'bottom', to be the one penetrated, and assured Harry it wouldn't hurt much if he relaxed.

Well, it had fucking hurt. It still hurt, every time he had sex. But it was worth it. Whenever someone was deep inside him, the ecstasy he felt was worth any of the pain. He had 'topped' for Justin, too, who encouraged him to be versatile, so keep his options open. Blokes were much tighter than girls were. He supposed that girls were that tight there, too, but he had never tried it with a girl.

He liked girls. They had nice curves. Their bodies were quite interesting in a way blokes' weren't. He had had sex with a few, and while he quite liked it, they weren't the same as blokes.

He had come to the conclusion, though timidly, that he preferred men to women. He hadn't yet told anyone, though; he needed to be ready. Once Ron and Hermione knew, the risk of the rest of the Weasleys finding out was heightened considerably. Once they found out, the odds of someone spilling the beans were enormous, and then it would be only a matter of hours before the tabloids announced that Harry Potter was a poof.

_And why would that be a problem? Is it an issue of being embarrassed, or wanting privacy? Because if it's the former, you could have some re-evaluating to do._

Harry watched the feminine waiter out of the corner of his eye. Did he know him? How did the bloke know Harry's preferences? Was Harry that obvious? If he knew, a bloke Harry had never met before, what did that mean for Ron and Hermione? Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys? Did they know?

"Earth to Potter! Come in Potter!" Hermione waved her hand in front of Harry's face. "Did you hear me?"

"No; he's too busy daydreaming about Mr. Suave." Ron grumbled.

Hermione's lips upturned. "Jealous, Mr. Weasley?"

"Shut it! That's disgusting!" Ron turned as red as his hair.

"What'd you say, Hermione? I was distracted, sorry." If Ron thought Harry was disgusting, what did that mean for the future of their friendship? They had been through so much together, but Ron seemed pretty firm on his views of homosexuality, no doubt stemming from the Pureblood culture the Weasleys tried so hard to stay away from. After all, two men having children was impossible, and all Purebloods wanted were children. If Harry was with a man, they could _never_ have children unless they used methods than were also frowned upon.

Harry had never talked to his friends about homosexuality, period. He had always known Ron found two blokes together disgusting, but Ron was always the first to notice two girls touching each other even semi-inappropriately. Two girls couldn't have children together, either.

Hermione, Harry imagined being a bit more lenient, but she was Muggleborn, growing up in London of all places. Muggles didn't care much if you were gay or straight, Harry knew. He would never be worried about holding hands with a boyfriend in public; it wasn't as if the shop owners could or would kick him out. He had heard horror stories while at the pub, but had been assured that such experiences were not day-to-day, that while gay people were murdered, mugged, and beaten on the streets of London, straight people were, too. That was somehow, in its own way, surprisingly comforting.

His friends would accept him, in the end. Harry knew they would. They loved him too much to not. It was just a matter of getting up the courage and confidence to tell them. Despite all that Snape had said, Harry wasn't too confident. Privately, he agreed that maybe he could be a bit arrogant, but not confident.

"It's getting late." Hermione pushed her hair back behind her ear. "We all have big days tomorrow; maybe it's time to turn in."

As Harry left the Three Broomsticks that night, he glanced back at the flamboyant waiter. It took a lot of guts for a guy to flirt with another guy, being unsure if he was gay. But this guy had seemed so _confident_, without a _doubt_.

The guy caught Harry's gaze and winked at him.

Harry quickly followed his friends out the door.

**Coming up next in _Close My Eyes_…  
><strong>**Chapter Two: _Unforgettable Unforgiveables_**


	2. Unforgettable Unforgiveables

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._

**Chapter Two: Unforgettable Unforgiveables**

Harry hung the plaque on the maroon Gryffindor walls. He stood back and admired its placement, the gold coincidentally making the House colours of Gryffindor. The light reflected on the plaque, making the name FRED WEASLEY stand out emblazoned on its engraved surface.

He bit his lip, and adjusted it to make it straight on the wall. Then he moved onto the next memorial plaque.

There was something to be said for doing it the Muggle way. The students and alumni that had died during the War had died for their beliefs or blood. Putting up their memorial plaques the Muggle way just seemed appropriate.

REMUS J. LUPIN, the next plaque said. In honour of all fallen Gryffindors, regardless of species, Harry had designated one wall of the Gryffindor Common Room. He had begun with plaques, and had put a golden vase on the wall, filled with flowers. He considered charming some sort of verse onto the wall, but couldn't think of one appropriate.

All of the Heads of Houses were putting up some sort of memorial in their common rooms. Harry couldn't imagine what Slughorn was doing in his common room – was it right to put up a tribute to Crabbe? To those who had died fighting _for_ not _against_ Voldemort? Snape deserved a small tribute for his efforts, but a lot of the other Slytherins who had died had questionable loyalties.

The Gryffindor memorial wall had a great percentage of the War deaths on it. Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Fred Weasley, Katherine Wood, Paul Bell, had all been in Gryffindor. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

_And if you had only killed Voldemort two hours earlier, so many of them would still be here. Fred, Remus, Paul…_

But if he was going to play that game, why not back up to four years earlier? Had he killed Voldemort in the graveyard in the end of his fourth year, Sirius would still be alive. It was a ridiculous game, however, as Voldemort still had most of his Horcruxes at the graveyard. When Fred had died, there had still been at least two Horcruxes to be destroyed… the exact sequence of events that night had long ago blurred together.

_Sirius can't even have a plaque on the wall, because no one knows what happened to him._ Missing in Action was what Sirius legally was. Legally declared dead, as his magical signature could not be picked up in all of Europe.

He was just hanging up the plaque that read COLIN CREEVEY, when the gaggle of students came in. Led by Sharron Waters and Stuart Treadaway, the first-years looked wide-eyed and opened-mouthed around the room, and at Harry.

"Hello!" Harry said. Breaking the rules, he had not been down for supper. He hadn't wanted to see all of the first-years come in, hadn't wanted to see all the noticeably absent students he had grown up with. It was embarrassing, and he would never admit it, but he didn't know if he would be able to take it. He didn't know if he could keep himself from breaking down like a girl.

So he hadn't gone down. Rather than representing Gryffindor at the Head table, he had stayed in Gryffindor Tower, doing the memorial he had purposefully procrastinated on for that purpose.

None of the first-years spoke in return to him. They all stared at him, mouths agape, just like almost everyone else Harry had met in the past several months.

The rest of the Gryffindor students came in behind the prefects and first-years. The rest of the students didn't really seem to give a damn that he was the Harry Potter – they had, after all, not only met him before, but many had fought alongside him.

Despite their relationship with Harry, regardless of whether they knew him or not, they stood quietly, waiting for him to speak.

Harry swallowed nervously. He was not the best at public speaking, despite how many speeches he had been asked to give in recent months.

"These plaques represent all who died fighting against Voldemort. Four months ago tonight, most of these people died within these walls. Remus Lupin was hit by the Killing Curse, Colin Creevey fought bravely in the Great Hall, and was fired in the back by a coward." He looked levelly into the eyes of Dennis at those words. "A lot of you know about loss and pain now; most people could say you lost your parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles too young. But you know what? I lost mine, too, and I learned it's not about what you lost, but the fact that they were here in the first place."

He motioned to the wall behind him. "This wall isn't about sadness, grief, and tears. This wall is about remembering those we lost, and remembering how to honour them in the best way possible. It is to remind us to be grateful for our lives and our freedom, things we are very lucky to have."

Harry didn't know who all knew about how he almost died in the Forbidden Forest, but he did not offer how very lucky he was to have his life. He had went up against Voldemort; people knew that, already.

"Now, things are going to be a little different this year in Gryffindor Tower. There will be a seventh-year from last year who was unable to pass his NEWTs." The seventh-years stared in shock; it was very rare that a student did not pass one of their NEWT subjects; it only took an A to pass, after all. "That was through no fault of his own; he wasn't here to attend school. He is required to take their courses again here at Hogwarts. This student will have special privileges – he will be allowed a two-day Hogsmeade weekend, every weekend. He is allowed spirit drinks such as Firewhiskey, but not on the premises. His curfew is two hours later than yours. He is not allowed to change the rules or boss you around, so don't let him bully you, but he does know how things work around here, so you might consider listening to him."

Harry didn't see Ron in the small crowd of Gryffindors, but that didn't surprise him. Ron was probably wandering aimlessly around the Tower, taking advantage of his later curfew.

_Hopefully he is not hiding behind a tapestry, snogging someone. _Harry had, perhaps a bit selfishly, had enough of lovey-dovey melodrama for a lifetime.

_Because Ron and Hermione aren't together anymore._ Harry still couldn't believe they hadn't told him. He had thought they told each other everything. Or, well, most everything. The _important_ stuff.

He motioned towards the vase. "But we're going to keep this filled with flowers, okay? Any colour flowers, it doesn't matter. We've got 'bout sixty students, give or take – I haven't seen the list yet – so that means one person filling the vase a week should be plenty. Their job will be to find the flowers, fill the vase with them and water, and use the proper Herbology charms to keep them alive." His eyes narrowed. "No sabotaging anyone's work. This is about honour, not acting like small children, even though I know a lot of you are."

"Vase-fillers will be assigned by the middle of the week. During the winter, when there are no flowers outside, money will be given to the vase-filler for the flowers. Any questions?"

A very small firstie raised his hand. He was so small – Harry couldn't remember being that small. "Were ya scared to kill You-Know-Who?"

_Yes. No. Yes. I didn't have a choice._ He cleared his throat. "That's not the kind of question I was talking about. I was, um, talking about the vase, and the House rules."

A little girl raised her hand. "Is it true you got married to her?" She pointed at Ginny.

Harry flushed and looked up at Ginny, who smirked. She always managed to find things hilarious, even when they really weren't. "Um, no, actually. We're not dating anymore. So-"

"You broke up?" A third-year asked, incredulously. She looked at the both of them with disgust. "Why? You were cute!"

"We-We didn't break up!" Harry had not wanted the conversation to go that way. "We're just not dating anymore. We mutually decided that we had other interests and that, me being best friends with her brother, that it was best for us to just-"

Ginny coughed. "Harry."

_Fuck_. He hadn't meant to share that much. "Any questions concerning _this year at Hogwarts_?"

"You're our Head of House?" A fifth-year doubtedly said. "Aren't you supposed to be, like, older to do that?"

"Professor Snape was not too much older than me when he became Head of Slytherin." Harry assured the student. "And it's probably only this year, until Hogwarts and everyone can get back on their feet. Now, any questions that do not concern me or Voldemort?"

A shudder ran through the Gryffindors at the name, but no one raised their hands.

"Okay then, great. Go up to your dormitories – your uniforms have been charmed their appropriate house colours by the house-elves, so you don't have to worry about that tonight. Don't stay up fiddling with your tie tonight, but if you know how to tie one, make sure your dorm mates know so you can help them in the morning. It would be good if you would learn how to tie them, though, or learn the charm to tie them. You'll be here for seven years, and tie one almost every day that you are. Goodnight."

He left the Gryffindor common room after he was sure the prefects had everything under control. He lingered a bit, under the pretence of wanting to visit with Nearly Headless Nick, but really, he was waiting for Ron.

Who never showed up, even when it was time for his curfew.

Harry sighed, and went down to his new quarters. Ron was older than him, and his best friend; who was he to get him in trouble, and to make sure he got tucked in on time?

**o-O-o**

He arched his tanned, built body, as he lay down on the bed. His toned stomach rose and fell lightly as he breathed. His body was finely dusted with hair. The trail of hair on his stomach led down his abdomen to a sizeable cock.

Harry twitched. If he were caught in this type of situation by a fellow staff member, or God forbid, a student, he would never live it down. It was such a huge risk, bringing a bloke into his rooms; the rumours would spread like wildfire at Hogwarts.

"This is incredible," Kelvin murmured.

_Is_? It _was_. Had _been_. Two sweaty blokes lying breathless in bed were hardly incredible.

"Hmmm." Harry sat up, groaning at the feeling inside him. He was going to feel that in the morning.

He got out of bed and strode over to the back of his door. He took his dressing room of the hook, and wrapped it around his naked body. "I think we needed more lube."

Kelvin laughed, rolling over to his stomach. His eyes twinkled. "I thought you were tough enough to take it."

What was the point in being tough when they had a huge container of lube? It was always better to use too much than not enough. It was stupid to pretend it didn't hurt when one used little or not enough lube. Justin had taught Harry that.

But Harry tried to play it cool. "And what gave you that impression?" He motioned to the closed door to the loo. "The loo is there if you want to clean up."

Kelvin stood and sauntered over to the loo. "You're Harry fucking Potter." His voice echoed as he went inside the loo. "You're supposed to be able to take pain. Then again, you're also not supposed to be gay." A chuckle. "I still can't believe it."

Harry's gut twisted. He had purposely picked up a squib, not being able to take a Muggle into Hogwarts and not having the balls to come out to the Wizarding world. He had hoped a squib wouldn't care whether he was Harry Potter or not.

_Does it matter if he cares?_ Harry used a spell to clean himself out. _It's just sex. It's not as if you were looking for a deep relationship._

He grew increasingly nervous as he realised the possibilities. _If he's so excited to have had sex with me, he's going to tell everyone. It's not like he's going to keep it quiet, even if he promises; he's going to kiss and tell. Everyone will know._

_Who will they believe? Some random squib, or the-Boy-Who-Lived? _He knew the answer to that, though; it had not been so very long ago that he had been Undesirable No. 1. The Wizarding world had a very short memory.

Harry crept, barefoot, over to the loo door. Kelvin had left it open. He held his wand tightly.

One of the cruellest spells in the world was the Obilivation spell. To make someone forget parts of their lives, things they'd done… it was not funny. It was terrible.

However, it was not an Unforgiveable. Unforgiveables could never be used for good; so consequently, anything that wasn't an Unforgiveable could be used for good. Oblivation was one of those things that could be used for bad and good. Usually bad, but there was good, like a situation like this.

"_Oblivate_." He whispered, pointing his wand at the tanned blonde.

An hour later, he was alone in his quarters, smoking his second cigarette. Alone and miserable, but no one knew, and that was the important thing.

_You're ridiculous_, he ridiculed himself_. You don't have to come out to the whole world right away, but you're scared to tell Ron and Hermione, even. Why? And they wouldn't tell anyone if you asked them not to. They're not those kinds of people_.

He had to tell his friends. He had to tell them because, inevitably, someday the rest of the world would find out his preferences. That night had been a close call, and he had been wholly unprepared.

He needed his friends to know for practise telling him, and for _support_. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

**Coming Up Next **_**in Close My Eyes**_**…  
>Chapter Three: <strong>_**Like the Advert Man**_


	3. Like the Advert Man

**Disclaimer:**_I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._

**Chapter Three: **_**Like the Advert Man**_

Teaching, Harry soon discovered, was far harder than just getting up in front of students and paraphrasing a textbook. It required knowing the material beyond what your tiny brain managed to retain in first-year. You needed to know the material back and forth, for every year. You needed to know what the textbook didn't say, in case the students had questions. You needed to stay on top of lesson plans, multiple ones per day per House grouping. Just because Gryffindor and Ravenclaws fourth-years would be studying out of pages 3-9 didn't mean the sixth-year Slytherin and Hufflepuffs would be. That said, just because sixth-year Slytherins and Hufflepuff shared Defence didn't mean that the fifth-year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs did – they were split up differently.

It didn't help that Harry didn't have proper lesson plans to recycle from the previous teacher. When a teacher took over a position, say Frenchie Dawn who was the new Transfiguration teacher, they typically had lesson plans that they could revise to suit their teaching style over time. They had lesson plans; they didn't start out with nothing.

But Hogwarts had not had a well-rounded Defence teacher in fifty years. Even their best teachers, like Remus Lupin, were not the most well-rounded; Lupin had basically only taught defence of magical creatures, not defence against Dark spells. Barty Crouch Jr., posing as Moody, had taught the exact opposite. As much as Harry hated to admit it, Quirrel, Lupin, or Snape were easily the best Defence teachers Hogwarts had the entire time Harry had known about the school.

That was sad.

"The bell doesn't release you; I release you." Harry felt like cursing himself off of the Astronomy Tower as he found himself saying the words he so often despised his teachers for saying. "None of you have a class for half an hour – you can spend three more minutes here. John, stop that! I can see you passing notes!"

"It's his note; I'm just passing it along," the boy protested, motioning towards Ron. "If you're going to scold someone, scold him!"

Ron was easiest one of the biggest in the room. Though most boys in seventh-year were close to their adult size, Ron still managed to tower above the class. He got his height and build from the same person Bill did, no doubt.

In fact, Ron's legs were long enough to stretch almost comically enough out of his desk. He looked too big for the desk, and judging from the way it kept creaking, he probably was.

Harry sighed. He wasn't about to scold Ron, especially in a classroom setting. He and Ron had passed more notes in six years than he would admit to his students. "Well, just 'cause someone hands you a note, doesn't mean you have to pass it on, does it? You can all pass notes around the Great Hall, if it's that much fun. This is serious stuff here; have you all forgotten last spring so quickly? Most of you are alive because of what the seventh-years before you learned in Defence; some of them died last year. One of your own year-mates, who the Gryffindors in this classroom roomed with, died. The least you can do is honour their memory by learning Defensive spells, so that you can save yourself, and maybe other people, someday."

He glanced at the clock; his three minutes were up. "All right, you can all leave now, but read pages 9-12 before Thursday! Jenks, can you stay behind for a moment?"

A squat pale boy with nearly white hair stood beside Harry's desk. "Yes, Harry?"

Harry sighed. How many times would he have to make the same correction that day? "It's Mr. Potter at Hogwarts for now one, Jenks. And don't forget you have an appointment with Ms. Wild at 1:30, okay?"

The albino-looking boy's face reddened. "I told Mum I didn't need a shrink!"

"I don't think you need a shrink, either." Harry said. "But, you know, it can't hurt to just talk to someone – you're getting class credit for it, instead of attending History of Magic. You get to skive off History of Magic, once a week, without consequence. Surely you want that."

"There's nothing wrong!" Jenks insisted. "No one in my family died! I wasn't fighting in battle! I didn't-"

"Yeah, I know, but you still know people who did. Professor Lupin died, you know. Professor Snape. Colin. Fred Weasley."

"Yeah, I know. They're all up there on the wall." The boy muttered, looking down at his shoes.

"My friend, Hermione, is training to be a counsellor." Harry tried to encourage Jenks. "You remember Hermione. It's been really nice for me and Ron, because she gets to practice therapy while we talk to her. It's like a win-win… win."

Jenks looked up, blue eyes wide. "You have to see a shrink, too?"

Did he _have_ to see one? No. No one was making him, and therefore he did not go. But he should have been seeing one. Perhaps he could get a few hours of sleep, instead of waking up from terrible nightmares.

"It's complex." Harry picked up the book bag he carried with him. "Come on – I'll walk you to your next class."

The Ministry, in their first reasonable effort to achieve anything decent since Harry was eleven, had put in two therapists at Hogwarts. Every student, within the first several days at Hogwarts, saw a therapist and was 'evaluated', of sorts. No one was forced to continue the sessions, but many panicky parents insisted, and rightfully so.

Harry had never seen so many hollow students walk down the halls of Hogwarts. You could see it in their eyes. They were shell-shocked, seeing things that weren't really there. So many of them looked like they were seeing metres away, while staring at a solid stone wall. So many of them needed a responsible grown-up to talk to, to tell someone something in confidence. Harry thought it was a good programme, and thought it was rather sad that he was a teacher, and therefore unable to participate. He needed something to help him sleep, and potions weren't helping.

Hermione met him outside Dr. Wild's office. She wore a conservative grey dress that met her knees. Inside the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, it was quite appropriate, though Harry knew Hermione often dressed that conservatively. Once last year, he had caught a glimpse of her breasts as she changed inside their tent; she really minimised and underplayed her features when she dressed. He wondered if she did it on purpose.

"Please tell me you have a break, and are going to invite me to your quarters for a cup of tea." Hermione leaned her head on Harry's shoulder as soon as Jenks went inside Ms. Wild's office, leaving them alone. "I need a pick-me-up."

Harry wrinkled his nose, trying not to sneeze at the touch of her hair. "I wish; I've got Slytherins next."

"What year?"

He couldn't remember.

Hermione took Harry's hand in hers as they walked back to his classroom. He supposed Ron wouldn't be jealous that he was holding Hermione's hand, now that they apparently broke up.

He wasn't going to ask Hermione about it, though. Not now, when her eyes were already red-rimmed.

"How's Ron doing in class?" Hermione asked, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

Harry wasn't sure he should give Hermione the details, not wanting to upset her. "Um, well, we haven't had any tests yet in Defence, and he kind of keeps his mouth shut in class, but I think that's because he already knows the Defence stuff, and wants to give the younger kids a chance."

The reality of the situation was that Ron behaved badly in Defence. He didn't see Harry as an authority figure, and truth be told, Harry didn't see himself as one. Especially over Ron, who he saw as an equal. He had heard whispers in the staff room about Ron, but hadn't been able to pick up exactly what was going on. Apparently though, Ron misbehaved in every class.

Hermione would just lecture him. Harry had a feeling Ron didn't really need a lecture at the moment.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked as they entered his empty classroom. He tried to act casual as he shuffled through sheaves of parchment, and began to draw wand position diagrams on the blackboard.

Hermione sat down at one of the empty student desks, continuing to dab her eyes. "Yes, I'm all right; I was helping Ms. Wilds talk to some of the second-years earlier. I'm afraid my emotions got the best of me." She bitterly laughed.

Harry was not good with tears. He had rarely been comforted in his life when crying, and was not sure how to extend the comforting gesture. "Oh." He sat on his desk, twirling his wand around his hand, trying to think of something to say. "It's gotta be hard, reliving all the um, bad stuff."

Hermione sniffed. "I just feel bad; they went through so much last year. Professor Snape was such a terrible headmaster!"

Hermione had not seen Snape's memories like Harry had. It was Harry's private opinion that Snape had done the best he could under the circumstances. He knew from experience that Snape enjoyed making children cry, but not from physical pain. If Snape had seen a way out of putting children through such torture as detention punishments, Harry was inclined to think he would have done it, at least for the youngest kids.

"Yeah, well, no one can match up to Dumbledore." Harry shifted. "What do you think of-"

He did not get a chance to finish, as Ron chose that moment to step back into the classroom. "Forgot my- hey, Hermione!" Ron's face brightened. His blue eyes twinkled like Harry hadn't seen them twinkle all week. "Are you- what are you wearing? I know your parents are hard up from their year in Australia, but even Ginny manages to wear dresses not _that_ ugly."

Hermione busted into tears.

Harry summoned Ron's book bag, strode over, and handed it to him. "Nice, Ron."

"What?" Ron blinked. "What'd I miss?"

Ron's problem was that he had no tact. He was not a vicious or mean person. He stored ill will in his heart for very few. Despite the fact that he and Hermione had evidentially broken up, Harry doubted Ron would ever deliberately hurt her feelings. He was just not that kind of person; he wasn't raised to be like that.

_He's a kind person, Harry. A good person. Maybe not always nice, but he's good. He won't kick you where it hurts because you like guys._

_Yeah, but as it turns out, Snape had been a good person, too. And Dumbledore had been nice, but not exactly golden. You make terrible points, Potter. And you talk to yourself; you should really get that checked out._

"Apparently the bit in McGonagall's welcome speech about brave faces, emotions, and girls' way of dealing with them." Harry motioned out the door. "Come to my quarters tonight, after the student's curfew. We all need to talk."

**o-O-o**

The quarters for the Gryffindor Head of House were very simple. It consisted of a large open room that served as both a sitting room and kitchenette, a loo, and a bedroom. Harry owned little furniture that was not moth-eaten by years in Grimmauld Place, so it was a relief to know that the quarters were fully furnished – with Gryffindor red and gold, obviously.

The fireplaces at Hogwarts were quite large, so that one could stand up in them. The size enabled huge fires to roar, filling the cold rooms with natural heat. Harry needed all the warmth he could get; he always got cold and clammy when he got nervous.

"This is nicer than I imagined it would be." Hermione slipped off her shoes, curling up onto the sofa with her tea. "Do you have a bathtub bigger than the one rumoured to be in the Ravenclaw Head's quarters?"

Harry's tub was a boring claw foot tub; it wasn't even pool-like like the prefects'. "Why does Flitwick need a big bathtub? He could drown in a size 3 cauldron."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Hardy har har. That's so funny I forgot to-"

A chime alerted Harry to Ron's presence outside the portrait hole. Harry raced over to the doorway, and pressed his hand against the stone, so that the portrait would move aside.

Ron had changed out of his school clothes, and was dressed smartly in a new pair of trousers, and a causal shirt. Harry was so unused to seeing Ron in new things that he had to do a double-take before realising who it was.

"God, Harry; it's like you've got the whole fucking common room all to yourself." Ron stepped in without invitation.

"Ron!" Hermione scolded.

Ron ignored her. "Vaulted ceilings, huh? Hey, wow; is that what I think it is?"

"It's an _empty_ liquor cupboard." Harry stopped Ron before he could raid his Firewhiskey. "And even if it did have Firewhiskey in it, you're not allowed to have it on the premises."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right, and who's gonna know?" He plopped down on the sofa next to Hermione.

Harry exhaled deeply. With shaky hands, he fumbled for his cigarettes.

_You can do this,_ he told himself as he leaned over the fire to light his cigarette_. It's not like they can get out without your touch. You hid the Floo powder; at the very worst, you can _Obliviate_ them, and they'll never remember what you said._

As the nicotine began to sink into his system, he appraised Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She had changed clothes since that morning, but was still dressed almost too modestly. She was no longer crying, but how long would that last?

"We need to talk," Harry at last said.

"It's complicated," Ron said, quickly, glancing at Hermione.

_What_? Harry blinked. "Um… no, not really. Well, sort of, you see- huh?"

Ron reddened. "Never mind."

Hermione motioned towards one of the Gryffindor-red armchairs. "Sit down, Harry."

He couldn't sit. He was too jittery to sit. "You guys know Leonardo da Vinci?"

"The wizard or the Muggle?"

This was far more complicated than Harry had originally planned for it to be. "There were two?"

"Both first and surname are very common names in Italy."

How was Harry supposed to know? He had never left Great Britain. "Oh, well, the wizard, I guess."

"The alchemist?"

"No, the Mona Lisa." That was the only painting of his Harry could recall the name of.

"That one was the Muggle."

"Oh. The Muggle then." Harry had gotten them sidetracked on the conversation.

"I'm confused." Ron whinged. "Who're we talking about?"

"It doesn't really matter." Harry was getting impatient. "Anyway, people say that he was- and lots of other famous people in history too. Like George Howe, and Barry Morris, and-"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I'm not following you, Harry. Leonardo da Vinci was a Renaissance man. George Howe is the chocolate frog advert man, and I don't know who Barry Morris is, but-"

"-he's that glam Wrocker." Ron piped up. "Charlie listens to his music. He only listens to older Wrock."

Harry had hoped Hermione would have caught on to the trend. "Um, yeah. Anyways, they all have two things in common with me. First of all, they're famous, and second of all-"Harry took a deep breath.

"Um, you've got nothing in common with Barry Morris. He's, like, seventy, and wears eyeliner." Ron leaned back on the sofa. "Why are we discussing Charlie's music idols, and can we please stop?"

"-and second of all…" Hermione continued where Harry left off. "And second of all, what?"

Harry stared at her. "Please don't make me say it."

Hermione bit her lip, and looked over at Ron, who shrugged. She turned back to Harry, eyes furrowed. "Well, Barry Morris and George Howe are both gay," she said, slowly.

Ron's eyes widened. "No! The chocolate frog guy? The one on all the radio adverts? '_Hop it, pop it, eat it, eat it, eat it_!'" he sang.

"But there's no real evidence that da Vinci was a homosexual." Hermione said. "I mean, people talk about a lot of people in history being gay, but it doesn't mean it's _true_, Harry."

Harry's stomach twisted, and he suddenly felt like he wanted to be anywhere but in his sitting room having this conversation. "Oh. Well, um… can't someone just get a Time Turner and find out?"

His attempt to steer Hermione into a conversation of ethics and laws failed. "No; you know better than that. So, what you meant to say that you have something in common with Barry Morris and George Howe; you are the three of you famous, and you're gay."

Wait; Harry hadn't gotten to that part, yet. He hadn't gotten to the part where he announced his sexuality. He had not yet gotten to his point. He had been hoping Hermione wouldn't make him say it, but he had been expecting the light to reach her eyes. He had expected to see her eyes widen as realisation dawned. He had prepared himself for surprise, revulsion, acceptance, and confusion.

He had not prepared himself for Hermione's kind smile… and Ron's smirk.

"Really, mate?" Ron said after a long silence. "You start with bringing up a dead Muggle genius, hoping for us to realise that he is just like you? I know you've got an ego but-"

Harry collapsed in the armchair. He realised belatedly that he was nervously chewing on the end of his cigarette, and mashed it into the ashtray. "You guys knew?"

"_Knew_ is such a strong word to use." Hermione sipped her tea, obviously not uncomfortable at all in the conversation. "We had our suspicions, but-"

The hair on Harry's neck stood on end. "_We_? Suspicions? What suspicions? Am I that obviously flaming that-"

Ron waved Harry down. "_We_ as in me and Hermione. And yes, actually; when Lavender started stripping at Seamus' party three weeks ago, you were the first bloke to bring his eyes back to his Butterbeer."

"That means nothing, Ron," Hermione huffed. "What Lavender did was a drunken disgusting act that every girl would be ashamed of doing. And besides, she doesn't have that great of a body, anyway, and-"

"And you're a good judge of women's bodies?" Ron leaned forward. "Do tell."

Normally, Harry made an effort to reflect the conversation off of him. But tonight, he needed it on him. He needed to know. "Guys, what made you think I was… does everyone know?"

Hermione stuck her tongue out in Ron's direction before turning to Harry. "I can't speak for everyone, but I don't think so. It's not as if you've got it stamped on your forehead; if everyone knew, it'd be all over the _Prophet_ by now, wouldn't it?"

"And it doesn't really matter if everyone does know," Ron pointed out. "Were it anyone else, no one would care. All the headlines and articles would only, in the end, announce that our world's most eligible bachelor is queer, making him not such an eligible bachelor, but more of a-"

That sounded far worse to Harry than Ron made it out to be. "But it's not true! I mean, I _could_ end up with a girl."

Hermione smiled, sympathetically. "Harry, there's no reason to-"

"I could!" Harry insisted. "I mean, I _like_ girls! I didn't kiss Cho Chang for nothing! And Ginny – you all saw me kiss Ginny!"

"Very publicly. We wondered if it was strategic, to be honest." Hermione flushed. "Or you know, overwhelming happiness."

It was not. Harry had really liked Cho, in the best way his fifteen-year-old self could. And his short-lived relationship with Ginny had been overplayed by the press; they had never been any more than awkward friends out on a few dates.

But he _did_ like girls. If he was forced to be only with girls, he wouldn't consider that worse than the Dementor's Kiss. He liked their soft bodies just as he liked blokes' hard ones. He had thoroughly enjoyed the times he had been with them sexually, and had his own opinion about what size breast was actually the perfect handful.

But if it came down to an ultimatum, he would pick blokes, hands down. He supposed it made him sound rather greedy and undecided; it wouldn't be something he would share with people.

"I like girls, too." Harry was adamant. "I just don't have the compulsive urge to pick one up in a pub every weekend like Seamus does."

"Yes, well, that's his personal problem." Hermione sighed.

"Though not exactly a private one," Ron piped in.

Hermione raised a brow at Harry. "I don't know about bisexuality, Harry. Think about it; can you really love both? Are you sure that this homosexuality thing is not a phase, and you're leaning towards women? Are you sure that if you are actually gay, you're not deluding yourself into thinking you also like women?"

Harry blinked. What a bizarre question. "Why would I do that?"

"Not on purpose! But imagine for a moment, if everyone knew your orientation as being gay; would you still like women the same?"

Ron shifted. "I don't know how that would make a difference, Hermione."

Hermione glared at him. "What would you know?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! I mean, when it comes to liking blokes, I know nothing at all. I mean, zip and nada. I know more about _Divination_ than I do blokes." The tips of Ron's ears reddened. "And what would you know? First talking about Lavender's body, and that bloke you were with last Tuesday _was_ rather fem."

"Are you stalking me?"

"No; I walk into a pub and am greeted with more Public Displays of Affection than I'm ever going to need to see."

Harry had been breaking up arguments between Ron and Hermione for years, and was rather skilled in it. "Stop; I didn't tell you for a psyche evaluation, Hermione. I just thought that I should tell you guys, you know. Just in case."

"In case of what?" Ron asked. "Wait; you don't have one of those gay diseases, do you?"

"Ron, they're not gay diseases. Anyone can get them," Hermione said.

"Fuck." Ron muttered.

"Just in case it gets all over the place. Just in case… you know. You're my friends, the closest thing to family I've got now. You're supposed to know these kinds of things." _Like who I have sex with. That is kind of personal, Harry. Really, what's the point of coming out? So that you don't surprise people when you show up at dinner parties with a date?_

"We appreciate it, Harry." Hermione said.

"Yeah. And your secret is safe with us." Ron agreed. "As long as you don't want anyone to know, no one will know."

Harry hoped so.

**Coming Up Next In **_**Close My Eyes**_**…  
>Chapter Three<strong>_**: A Way To Sleep**_


	4. A Way To Sleep

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._

**Chapter Four: **_**A Way to Sleep**_

Dumbledore's office changed a lot when McGonagall took over. No longer were there whimsical decorations or intriguing trinkets. McGonagall kept the office very plainly decorated. There were no photographs or mysterious objects, only tartan curtain hangings, and some sort of plant.

He liked McGonagall well enough, but it made him really miss Dumbledore.

"Sit down, Mr. Potter." Though they were colleagues now, McGonagall still called Harry 'Mr. Potter'. Apparently she still thought of him as a child.

Harry sat in a large wooden chair, very different from the comfortable chairs Dumbledore had used opposite his desk. Perhaps they were destroyed last year… or during the Battle at Hogwarts.

McGonagall looked at Harry with narrow eyes over her spectacles. "Now, I am going to get right to the point; it had come to my attention that you are treating Mr. Weasley like a friend rather than a student."

"He is my friend, Professor. My best friend." Harry lifted his chin. "I'm not going to act like he's an eleven-year-old that doesn't know the rules." Ron was eighteen, and knew the rules inside out. It was his choice that he didn't follow them.

"No; you must act like he is seventh-year that refuses to follow the rules. Rules are there for a reason, Mr. Potter."

"To be broken?" That motto had worked quite well for Harry in the past.

McGonagall's lips were so thin they nearly disappeared. "To keep you _safe_! I understand that you do not want to do detention with Mr. Weasley, but you have the power and the right to send him to detention with Mr. Filch, and as an employee of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you are expected to use the right."

Ron had done a lot of things to warrant detention as of late. He constantly put his dirty shoes up on desks, read Wizard Weekly behind his textbooks, and sniggered at accidental innuendoes. He had missed his late night curfew three times the previous week, and had tied Luna Lovegood's long locks into quite the knot.

But Harry hadn't given Ron detention. It had seemed weird, especially because had he failed his NEWTs, he would have been right there beside Ron doing the same things… though he would have never tied Luna Lovegood's hair in knots, and would have preferred a magazine with photos of fit men.

"Why can't I tell Slughorn, and let him give Ron detention?" Slughorn gave terrible detentions. Hundreds of gooby cauldrons, in a boring stuffy room. More often than not, he left you alone, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Because, Mr. Potter, you are his teacher! You are his authority! If he knows he can get away with it, he will do it, and not only in front of you! He will behave that way around all of the teachers, under the pretence of 'Mr. Potter lets me do it'!"

Harry found this an excellent time not to mention that Ron called him 'Harry', even in class.

McGonagall sighed, her faced reddened. "I know young boys. I raised two myself, and Headed Gryffindor much longer than you have."

Harry's ears perked. McGonagall had kids? Well, why not? She was young once, though Harry had never seen a picture of her when she was below seventy. She didn't have a husband – had she, Harry would most certainly have heard about it by now.

"You've got kids?" He asked.

She silenced him with a look. "_Mr. Weasley_. Let's stay on the topic."

Harry sighed. "What do you want me to say? Provided he doesn't get grades lower than an A, or get a girl pregnant, there's not much I can do in terms of authority. It would kill our friendship if I tried."

"Then perhaps what the two of you have isn't friendship." McGonagall stood. "I urge you to re-evaluate it, and perhaps your commitment to this job. I thought you were a bit young to be Head, but Severus was hardly much older…" she wiped the corner of her eye.

"I am committed." Harry was very committed to Hogwarts. He loved Hogwarts more than he loved any place he had ever been to. Hogwarts was his home, and he was willing to do everything possible to get it back on its feet.

"Then prove it, Mr. Potter. Because favouritism towards Mr. Weasley will not go over well when the other students start to notice. Good day, Mr. Potter."

Harry tore out of the office, down the rounded stairs, and down the corridor. He didn't want to stop running, but had to stop when he reached the Grand Staircase, or fall to his death.

He couldn't be lenient towards Ron. He couldn't let Ron get away with stuff. McGonagall was right than the other students would take notice and complain, and also right that it wasn't fair.

But she was wrong about their friendship. Any bloke would be angry if their best friend started forcing them to do stuff. It would be annoying, and mean. It wouldn't be _fair_.

_Ron would get mad if you told him to stop being late for curfew, and to stop drinking Firewhiskey in broom closets, to stop showing up to classes pissed. But he'd listen, wouldn't he? He'd listen if you told him that they weren't your rules, and that your hands were tied._

_This is Ron, though._ He sighed, looking over the empty staircase as he stepped onto another flight of stairs to take him to the seventh floor. _Ron takes everything personally. His hair colour matches his temper. It'll probably just make things worse. _

He continued in this vein as he got to the seventh floor and walked straight past the _Arithmancy_ classrooms. He paused outside his quarters, wondering if it would be worth it to try to go to sleep, but didn't, and continued on his way.

"Password?" The Fat Lady enquired.

Harry had set the password, but had to think a moment to remember it. "Photographs." It had been set in honour of Colin, whom Harry missed following him at a distance with a camera. It had nothing to do with his arrogance; he wasn't arrogant, regardless of what Snape said.

_Maybe you are a little._ He would never admit it out loud.

"Quite right, my dear." The portrait swung open.

The common room was empty, save for a few students in piles of homework, working steadily away. They looked up when he walked in, but paid him no mind, continuing to plug away at essays on Yvonne the Squib Scribbler, on themes such as 'Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, And These Spells Will Probably Hurt Me'.

He glanced at the stairs to the boy's dormitory. "Does anyone know if Ron Weasley is in?"

The students exchanged glances. "Yeah, he came up a little bit ago muttering something about stars and their corneas. Stars don't have corneas, do they Professor?" A young one tentatively offered.

"No, they don't," Harry gritted his teeth, and started up the stairs.

He went into the dormitory for the seventh-year boys, one he had rarely been in before, as it had been for boys the year below him nearly the entire time he was at Hogwarts. It mirrored the dormitory he had grown up in, however, almost exactly, though the trunks at the foot of the beds all had different initials than the boys' in Harry's year.

_Save one._

A battered purple trunk, with the initials R.W., sat at the end of a bad. It had been a reddish hue when Ron first came to Hogwarts, but an attempt to change its colour had left it permanently purple. Ron claimed he didn't want to use Fred's or George's now that they weren't due to the fact that George needed his, and Fred's he was too scared to open, but Harry suspected ulterior motives.

He suspected Ron had grown attached to his royally purple trunk.

He moved with stealth over to the bed, and slipped off his shoes. "Ron?" He stuck his head in between the folds of the curtains.

Ron sat up quickly, bringing the covers up to hide his bare chest. "Bloody hell."

"We need to talk." Harry whispered, climbing onto the foot of the bed and shutting the curtains behind him.

Ron's eyes went from Harry, to the closed curtains, and back again. "What're you doing in here?" His voice was strangely high.

"I don't suppose you'd like to have this discussion in the common room in front of a bunch of work overloaded third-years, would you?" Harry put a silencing spell around Ron's bed. "I just saw McGonagall."

Ron relaxed against his headboard, his covers falling around his waist. "Really?"

"Yeah." Harry purposefully did not look at Ron's chest, broad and hard unlike Harry's skinny and bony one. "And she was cross."

"She's blowing her stack about me?" Ron seemed pleased by this announcement.

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, you numbskull! _Me_!"

Ron sat up straight again. "You? What for?"

"Because I don't keep you in line! It's my fault apparently that you are pissed every time you go into class." Harry folded his arms over his chest. "Look, I don't care who you fuck, what you drink, and where you go at night, but you've got to follow the school rules. Rules exist for a reason, you know?"

Ron smirked. "I know; to be broken."

Somehow, it wasn't so humorous when you were on the receiving end of that remark. "Ron, I'm serious. You could get me fired. I'm trying to do good work here, getting the kids a good Defence teacher until a better one can be found. You can help me by being a good role model for the kids, being someone they can look up to and strive to be like. Just for this year; _please_?"

Ron brought his hands up to his temples, and collapsed again against the headboard. "Oh, bugger."

"God, you reek; do you need a hangover potion? I think I still have that vial Snape had us brew in sixth-year."

Ron snorted. "Golden Boy, wasn't that what he called you? Why do you think he had us brew those hangover potions and Don't-Get-Pregnant potions? For us to use them when we needed them, dimwit."

"Oh. Well, in case you forgot, I don't need Don't-Get-Pregnant potions. You've got no idea how disgusting and meticulous it is for a bloke to get pregnant, and then have a baby. I'm never doing it. You can have mine."

Ron's blue eyes bulged. "Your baby?"

"No, my Don't-Get-Pregnant potion."

"Oh." Ron shook his head. "No, give it to Hermione. She's a girl."

"Yeah, I hadn't noticed."

Ron combed his fingers through his carrot hair. "I took a hangover potion awhile ago, and it 'bout taken care of all the symptoms. Guess it doesn't take away the smell. But it doesn't matter; I'm going to have another drink in a bit."

Firewhiskey was very dangerous. Some people liked it in very concentrated doses; too concentrated, and they burned your throat to ash. It had all the side effects of Muggle spirits, which were too numerous to name. One of them, though, was death.

"You drink too much, Ron." Harry brought his knees up to his chest.

"You smoke too much, and I don't really get your point." Ron huffed. "I only drink because it helps, anyway."

_Helps? Helps what?_ What did Ron have that he needed help for? "A smoke helps me go to sleep at night." Harry admitted. "Otherwise I get too wound up, thinking about Voldemort and shit."

Ron nodded, knowingly. "Would you think it's stupid if I told you that a glass of Firewhiskey keeps me from waking up with a nightmare about Malfoy Manor? For awhile, anyway,"

Harry didn't think that was stupid at all. Hermione's screams haunted him. He remembered the fear of not knowing if she was being tortured, raped, or killed… and even then, by whom.

"It's not stupid, Ron; it actually makes sense. I'll tell you what, though," Harry stretched his foot until the bones cracked, "we can just not sleep. I tried going on a crazy amount of sleep all summer, and know what? It's doable. I went three days without sleeping once. It was only after I started smoking regularly that I stopped."

"Really?" Ron asked. "Isn't that hard?"

"The first night is the worst." Harry crawled over next to Ron. "You've already been up twenty-ish hours, so staying up another twenty is hard." He wouldn't say 'like torture'; he knew what real torture was.

"But what do we do all night if we're not sleeping?" Ron asked. His eyes lit up. "You want to go to a pub and pick up girls? Er, I mean, a boy and a girl?"

The only kind of sex Harry felt up to was angry sex. He didn't like rough, angry sex. "Nah, I can't. I've got to be here most nights. Let's just… talk."

"Talk?" Ron dubiously asked.

Harry nodded. "''Bout Quidditch. I've missed all the scores the past couple of weeks."

"Really?" Ron sighed. "Well then, hold on to your arse because I've got news about Ireland."

They spent the night doing nothing but talking. Intimately sitting side by side in darkness, they discussed sports, food, girls, and Harry even got the courage to offer up some information on the boys he had been with. They did not discuss anything deep or life-changing, but as young men do, they discussed their interests.

Their resolution to stay awake all night failed, unfortunately; Harry fell asleep on Ron's shoulder at a quarter until three.

**o-O-o**

She strutted into the pub, head high. The tips of her hair barely touched her bare shoulders, as it was swept into an updo. She walked smoothly in the stiletto heels, not so much as stumbling, even on the uneven stone flooring of the pub.

A bloke whistled loudly as she approached the bar, and she looked back with a dark look in her eyes.

"Just a fizzy drink," she carelessly said to the bartender.

"Hello," warm breath tickled her ear. "This isn't the kind of pub your types of girls go to."

She turned around, and looked at him with a raised brow. "And what type of girl am I?"

**Coming Up Next In **_**Close My Eyes…  
><strong>_**Chapter Five: **_**Browsing**_


	5. Browsing

_**Disclaimer: **__**I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story.**_

**Chapter Five: **_**Browsing**_

The memorial wall was not going as well as Harry had hoped. Gryffindors were not hard-working like Hufflepuffs, or cunning enough to get someone else to do their work like Slytherins were. Ravenclaws were quite clever, clever enough to keep flowers alive with little effort.

But Gryffindors were fiercely loyal to their friends, and wanted the memorial wall to stand in memory of their fallen House-mates. They just had to find a way to keep the flowers from browning, or dying within hours or days.

The way Harry saw it, it would take a potion in the vase to keep the flowers from dying. A spell could make something such as a bagpipe _look_ like a flower, but Harry didn't think the Gryffindors would want a bagpipe to be placed in their honours.

Potion ingredients could be obtained from Slughorn, but then Slughorn would want to know _why_. Harry didn't want to have to tell him he was incapable of keeping flowers alive, so he instead thought of Professor Sprout. However, she would be appalled if she knew he didn't know how to keep basic wild flowers alive, and he didn't want her appalled at him.

Madame Pomfrey had to have _something_. She had a store of potions larger than Harry had seen anywhere else. Granted, they were for the aid of the human body, not the plant, but from what Harry had learned in school, the biology between humans and plants was quite similar.

Worst case scenario, they would have another bouquet of dead flowers.

Harry slipped by Binns, not wanting to be confronted by the History of Magic ghost, and into the Hospital Wing.

It was empty. The six beds were nearly made. Large cupboards stood on either side of the doorway, cupboards that were filled with bandages, body prodders, and other medical supplies.

Harry knew from his many stays at the Hospital Wing that the potions were kept in Madame Pomfrey's office. The potions would be closely guarded; he would have to be sly.

He pulled his invisibility cloak over his head. The cloak was just big enough for him to hide under, though he was rather small. Hermione said that the brother who received the cloak from Death was likely on the smaller side, as people were back in the day. It was rather suiting then that the cloak was handed down to Harry.

He slipped off of his shoes and picked them up, so that he could creep silently in his stockinged feet.

_You're eighteen-years-old. You have been legally an adult for over a year now. You're a teacher at Hogwarts; you shouldn't need to sneak around like this. You're not supposed to use this invisibility cloak for anything but fun, except for maybe on Auror missions. You're an adult; you drink, you smoke... You don't need to sneak into the Hospital Wing._

He peeked out of his cloak, peering around the doorway into Pomfrey's office. Her desk chair was empty.

Harry was prepared to lower his cloak when he heard a noise. A shuffling noise, a scraping noise. The clinking of glass against glass.

_It's Pomfrey. She's here._

"Oh, bugger piss shit _fuck_!" Someone hissed.

Harry only knew one person who could swear like that. He stepped into the office and lowered his cloak. "Ron, what are you doing in here? It's three o'clock."

Ron startled, before glaring at Harry. He showed his forearm to him; it was blistering pus-filled blisters, an acrid burning smell in the air.

"What'd you do that for?" Harry hurried over to the potions cupboard. He began moving the bottles, careful not to spill something as Ron had.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Ron said through gritted teeth.

Harry found the antidote. "Here." He messily smeared the salve on Ron's arm.

The blisters began to subside. "Thanks, mate. I was just, um… browsing."

"_Browsing_." Harry repeated.

Ron coloured. "Um, yeah. See, I had this thing for my potions assignment, and-"

"And you'd thought you'd cheat." Harry put his hands on his waist. "Ron, that's something Malfoy, Goyle, or Crabbe…" his voice trailed. He could hear Crabbe's screams, as he burned alive, in his memories.

"I'm not a cheater." Ron growled. He pulled a small vial out of his pocket. "Look, it's Dreamless Sleep, okay? I need it."

Dreamless Sleep was a highly addictive substance. What was more powerful than guaranteed sleep, without nightmares? "Like you need a hole in the head." Harry snatched the vial away, his Seeker skills still intact after a year and a half off the pitch.

Ron's eyes darkened. "You said you needed it, too. Remember earlier, last week? When you fell asleep in my bed? A real invasion of privacy, by the way."

Last Saturday, Harry had fallen asleep in Ron's bed, by accident. They had run out of light topics to talk about, and Harry's head had begun to get heavy. He had woken at five-thirty, with Ron's head on top of his. His first thoughts had been paranoia, wondering what had happened, and as he remembered, he felt joy…

Because he hadn't _dreamed_! No good dreams, bad dreams… nothing at _all_!

But he had said nothing of Dreamless Sleep. He would never be irresponsible enough to mention it to Ron. It made him wonder who had been irresponsible enough to, had it not been him. Certainly not Hermione, or Ron's sister, Ginny.

"I don't take Dreamless Sleep, Ron, and I certainly didn't suggest it." Harry put the vial on the shelf where it belonged. "Look, you've got your whiskey. That's much less dangerous than taking potions."

Ron frowned. "But not as effective."

Harry was just surprised Ron knew the word 'effective' and used it correctly in a sentence. It took him a moment to get over the shock. "No Dreamless Sleep. If you take it, I'll be forced to report you. It could get you expelled."

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets. "Don't talk to me like I'm a firstie."

"Then don't act like it!" Harry said. "Have you talked to Ms. Wild about this?"

"No way; I don't see a stupid shrink."

"Have you tried Hermione, then?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "No."

_Why doesn't that surprise me?_

"I need sleep, Harry; look at the circle under my eyes. I haven't slept in a week."

A _week_? Harry had encouraged little sleep, not none at all. Then again, what with the terrible nightmares he had, sometimes that ended up being no sleep.

"Saturday?" Harry asked. "You were sleeping on Saturday night."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, for three bloody hours."

"I thought three hours was a good amount of time; I usually wake up every ninety minutes with a nightmare, sometimes earlier than that." Harry said.

Ron looked down at his scuffed trainers. He was very quiet.

"What?" Harry asked, shifting his feet.

"I'm the same. I mean, I've never timed it, but last Saturday was the best I have slept in a while. I might have even slept better had _you_ not insisted on getting up at six bloody o'clock." Ron's eyes narrowed.

Harry had had arguments in weirder places than a mediwitch's office. "I had to leave; I didn't want people to think we were up to anything we weren't, like-"

"Like… gay things?"

_Yes, like gay things. _The last thing Harry needed was for all of Hogwarts to find out he liked men. He couldn't take the pressure at the moment. The last thing Harry needed was for people to think he was gay, at _Ron's expense_."Yeah. And other stuff."

Ron let out a deep breath. "Well, I won't tell anyone if you won't."

"I won't." Harry vowed. "And we'll never do it again."

Ron's face fell. "Oh, um… okay. Yeah. Never again. We'll never even speak of it again. Unless…"

"Unless…"

"Unless we can keep doing it in secret. Maybe just once more, to see if it really does help us sleep. Maybe it's just the company, you know." Ron said, hurriedly. "Like, we're best friends. No different from Fred and George sharing a bed; they shared one up until Fred… you know."

_It is a lot different. We're not brothers._ "Yeah. No different. Maybe we'll just try it tonight… and if it doesn't work, maybe we can figure out how to get a little sleep with the Dreamless Sleep. Not every night, but maybe once a week?"

Ron nodded, wrapping his arms around himself as if cold. "Good deal. Let's go, before Pomfrey catches us."

**o-O-o**

Harry held onto Ron's sleeve as Ron pushed through the crowds of people. One could always count on a Muggle pub in London being absolutely packed on a Saturday night.

Smoke filled the pub, making it not easy to breathe. The lights were low; people were in the shadows, drinking casually, talking, and laughing.

"Firewhiskey. Bring the bottle." Ron got to the bar, and settled onto the only empty seat.

Harry stood next to his friend, and nudged him. There was no such thing as Firewhiskey, as far as Muggles were concerned. "Two pints, please." He corrected, smiling at the woman behind the counter.

"'Please'. That's the nicest thing I've heard all night." She gave them their drinks.

Perhaps taking Ron into Muggle London had been a mistake. Harry had arranged with McGonagall to go out between nine and midnight, and had taken Ron with him, under special permission. They had to be back by Ron's curfew, but three hours would be plenty of quality time getting smashed.

"Did you invite Hermione?" Harry asked over the loud music.

Ron made a face at the taste of the beer. "I told her we were going. She gave me a bit of a stick for it. She said I should stay back and study."

Harry had hoped Hermione would come. He hardly ever got to see her out of Hogwarts of late. He really missed the bond the three had once had. They used to see each other every day, spend every waking moment together. He felt like he and Ron were drifting apart from Hermione, and he didn't like that.

He loved Hermione. He did not want their relationship with her to be the occasional phone call, perhaps a visit every Boxing Day. He wanted things to stay as they had been forever. Perhaps that was a bit childish of him, but he didn't feel like it was too much to ask.

"The only thing you really need help on is Divination and History of Magic." Harry pointed out. "Those are the only things you got T's on when you took your NEWTs."

"The NEWTs are stupid. Not everyone can get an O on every subject." Ron muttered into his mug.

Harry chose not to remind Ron that you did not need an O, just an A to pass. "Perhaps, had you not detailed the history of male circumcision in your last History of Magic question, you would have passed it."

Ron had the grace to redden. "That's an important part of our history."

"Yeah, but the question was about Merlin, and not about what was going on under his shorts." Ron's attempt to be a joker like his brothers had failed, miserably. The NEWTs were not a time to mess around.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yes, Professor Potter. I will be sure to do better next time. Please don't Owl my parents!" He clasped his hands together.

Harry watched a guy grind up to a girl. It looked like fun, but he thought he would look like an idiot dancing like that. He just couldn't pull off 'sexy'. "I wish Hermione was here."

Ron glanced in the dancers' direction. "Why? So you can dance up against her like that? She'd probably let you. She lets everyone else."

Harry's gut twisted. The Hermione he knew would never let anyone, probably not even her husband, dance up against her like that. She was too proud. "She does not. She's not like that."

Ron sighed. "She wasn't in fourth-year. Things change."

Harry remembered Hermione looking beautiful in her blue dress, dancing with Viktor Krum. He couldn't see her doing that. "What changed?"

The red head shrugged before swallowing the last of his pint. "I don't know. She was kind of upset after bringing her parents home from Australia, and I was busy at home with George and Fred and Mum and Ginny…" his voice trailed.

Harry looked down at his fingernails. It was so hard to believe that Fred was dead. Fred was such a light, and one of Harry's closest friends. He had always felt like Fred and George were his older brothers, too. He wouldn't tell anyone, but it really hurt his heart.

"I guess it's my fault. If I was more available… or if I'm more available now, even, maybe she'd…" Ron shook her head. "I mean, who am I to talk? This is my second pint in only ten minutes. You're going to have to Levitate me back to the school. You're going to need a chimney sweep to clean out your insides, and Hermione's probably got, like, five STDs. It's the way we roll now."

Harry's smoking was nothing compared to Ron's drinking or Hermione's… sluttiness? Was Hermione a slut now? That was a very harsh four-letter word to use, especially to describe his bushy haired friend.

"When did you two break up?"

Ron blinked. "We didn't break up."

They didn't break up? How could they not break up? When you knew, without a doubt, that your girl was shagging other blokes, why wouldn't you break up? "You're not still together though?"

Ron shrugged. "We're not _not_ together."

Harry shook his head. "So you're still shagging?"

"That's a personal question!" Ron crossed his arms.

"Oh please; I saw your essay on circumcision. You told me about shagging Lavender, and Diana Morris, and-"

"I never said I shagged Diana Morris. I did not say I did _not_ shag Diana Morris."

Harry waved his hand. "You told me about shagging Hermione. How is this different?"

"Blokes don't tell about when they _don't_ get lucky. Only when they _are_ lucky." Ron explained. "God, wouldn't you _know_ this?"

Harry did know it, but he had thought his relationship with Ron was different than that.

Ron drained his second pint. "Look, we're not dating, but we never broke up. We're kind of… on a break, I guess. Coping. I'm not seeing anyone else, and neither is she; she's just having sex with blokes. I hope they're all blokes. Unless they're not… which would be kind of cool if, you know, the other girl was-"

Harry made a face. "I just can't believe you're putting up with that. I can't believe she's doing this. It's just so _unlike_-"

A bartender put down the phone. "Is there a Harry Potter here?" He called into the crowd.

If there had been a rug on the floor of the pub, Harry would have happily crawled under it. They had chose a Muggle pub for a reason; privacy. Oblivion to who Harry Potter was.

Ron leapt up. "Here. I'm him."

The bartender handed him the phone.

"Hallo?" Ron still spoke loudly into the phone, despite being taught by Harry and Hermione that it was unnecessary to yell. "Hallo?"

_Who would call me on a Muggle telephone?_ His first thought was the Dursleys, the Muggle family that raised him. But the was preposterous. They hated him; they didn't want to talk to him. Dean Thomas was a half-blood, but though he and Harry had been good friends during school, they had barely been in touch all summer. Hermione would Owl him, or wait for him to get home. It wouldn't be like her to phone.

_But it's not like her to sleep with strangers, either._

"Oh, fuck! Okay, be right there." Ron dropped the phone.

"Um, Ron? You're supposed to hang it up. Put it on the cradle. That-" Harry tried to offer advice, but Ron didn't seem to hear it.

His freckles stood out on his remarkably pale skin. He ran out of the pub faster than Harry could realise.

"Ron, wait!" Harry caught up with him. "What's going on?"

Ron turned to Harry, eyes filled with rage. "It's Hermione. She's in trouble."

_Hermione. Trouble. In trouble. Hermione is in trouble._ Harry swallowed the terror in his throat, and grabbed Ron's arm. "Where is she?"

Ron wheezed. "School."

Harry Apparated them outside the perimeters.

**Coming Up Next In Close My Eyes…  
>Chapter Six: Returning Emotions<strong>


	6. Returning Emotions

**Disclaimer: _I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._**

**Chapter Six: Returning Emotions**

"And how do you feel about that?"

Nineteen-year-old Hermione had been studying psychology, counseling, and related sciences for months. She knew all the drills; what questions one was supposed to ask, how to remain neutral and unbiased, how to remain calm, and how to keep the patient calm. She knew the leading question therapists asked was the simple "how do you feel about that?". She had asked that to many students she had been helping in the past several weeks, herself.

She had never considered what an annoying question it was. _How is it your business? You are getting paid three Galleons an hour to ask me how I _feel_? Perhaps I don't know. Maybe you should do your job and tell me _how_ to feel. _Her frustration was amplified by the fact that she knew how the therapist was thinking, by having experience in the position. The therapist was likely only half listening, planning her next question instead.

That was hardly worth a quid, much less a Galleon.

Hermione shut her eyes. She had been laid up in the hospital wing less than almost all of her peers. She was very careful, and did not engage in the same sort of athletic activities as others did. She did not play Quidditch or climb trees. She had always been careful regarding sanitary napkins, and had never gotten one of the syndromes regarding poor use. She had yet to break a bone or require stitches. She had a healthy appetite, never vomiting to make herself thin, but was on a healthy diet.

She had never had more than a skinned knee, scraped elbow, or broken nail. And now, of all times, she had to end up in the Hospital Wing.

"Hermione?" The woman prodded her. "Did you hear my question?"

Hermione opened her eyes, seeing the stone ceiling. "I did." Her voice made her headache worsen.

"And?" The woman shifted on her chair, picking at her pantyhose. Hermione privately hoped she would fall onto the floor; it would be quite comical.

"Sore. Tired." Hermione closed her eyes again. "Like I wish to be left alone."

"You do realise those are phsyical feelings, not emotional ones."

Hermione didn't have many emotional feelings, but she was not going to tell Ms. Wild that.

"I see." The woman did not leave. "The man that attacked you, you do not know who he is."

Hermione swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She could feel cold fingers being shoved under her skirt. "No."

"How do you feel that-"

"If I hear you say the word 'feel' one more time, I might scream." Hermione opened her eyes. "I have quite a bit experience in that field, screaming."

"And you really find that the adult thing to do?" The woman raised her well manicured brow.

"Over hexing people? Yes, I do."

The woman stood, smoothing her skirt. "Perhaps I will come back later."

_Perhaps you won't. _"I have been studying your profession for months, Ms. Wild. I hardly need therapy."

Ms. Wild frowned. "I thought you were a nice girl, Hermione."

_Yes, well, so did I._

"Hermione!" Ron's deep voice bounced off of the walls of the Hospital Wing.

An emotion filled Hermione at last as her closest friends rushed to her side; relief. A sob escaped her throat, before she realised it was even coming.

Ron grabbed her left hand, and Harry gingerly touched her bandaged left arm. Ron's skin was pale, and Harry's green eyes were wide.

"Are you okay? Did they catch the bastard? What happened, exactly? Are you okay? Are you messed up in a bad way? Are you okay? Have they called the Aurors in?" Ron's words came out in such a rush that she could barely discern one word from another.

"I think you asked if she was okay three times. What happened? Are you well?" Harry turned to Ms. Wild, uncertainly. "Um… is that your chair?"

"I will be back, Hermione." Ms. Wild said, smiling kindly before going into Madame Pomfrey's office.

Harry sat in the chair, and Ron knelt at Hermione's side. "We were in a pub; that's why it took us so long to come. McGonagall knew where we were, but we had to be telephoned."

That explained the foul smell of beer and smoke on their bodies. Ron smelled like he had bathed in both.

"You don't need to cry." Harry frowned, before pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket. He began dabbing at Hermione's face.

Ron wrinkled his nose. "You carry a hanky, Harry? Really?"

Hermione took the handkerchief from Harry, and dabbed her eyes with it. "Thanks." She croaked.

"Who was it?" Ron wanted to know. "Who touched you? I'll kill him, I swear I will. I'll use the Killing Curse. I'll levitate him to the highest stratosphere, and drop him on a spike. I'll castrate him with a spoon, and dangle him by his toes in a blistery-pus potion. I'll-"

"Ron." Harry reprimanded, as Hermione burst again into tears.

She hadn't been raped. Not by the strictest meaning of the word. She was not forced to have sex with the man. She hadn't had sex with the man; no part of his anatomy had entered hers. He had come close, however. It was defined as sexual harrassment; battery.

But it was her fault. She had been the one all made up, with enough product in her hair to supply a runway show. She had been the one wearing such a short skirt, _knowing_ how visually-orientated men were. She _knew_ what kind of men went to pubs like that. She had _known_, and she hadn't _cared_. She had practically _asked_ to be raped.

She had been incredibly lucky. Were it not for the heel of her shoe and her handiness with magic, his fingers would have been forced inside her, and then what? She would have been forced to the ground and…

"Sorry!" Ron said as the tears continued. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you sadder. I just-"

They went on like this for quite some time, Hermione crying. Ron continually apologising, and Harry sitting awkwardly, quietly. She felt a bit sorry for them, as they were boys without a clue of how to deal with female emotions. Or lack thereof. It was funny how she could be so sad, but feel so numb and emotionless at the same time.

Eventually though, she did regain control of herself, and was able to explain to her friends what happened. She did not explain the whys and the hows; to be perfectly honest, she could not answer those questions herself. She could not tell them why she had acted like she had for months; it was as if she woke up to realise her body was possessed, and could answer for none of her actions.

But that wasn't right, because she had not been possessed; she had been Hermione.

She told them how she had come into the pub, and had been approached by a man. She had not paid him any special attention, but had felt his eyes on her all evening. She had tried to ignore it, knowing she was extra touchy after the War. But it had become impossible to ignore when the eyes followed her into the loo… and when the man had chased her outside.

"Hermione, it's not your fault." Harry tried to comfort her.

Hermione wiped at her eyes, smearing her eye makeup down her face. "It is; you weren't there."

"So, um, can we get him arrested?" Ron asked. "Dementor's Kiss, at least?"

"We don't know who it is, Ron, and the only way to maybe find out would have to involve the Ministry." Harry said. "I don't think Hermione wants to do that."

She didn't. To have various spells performed on her, feet in the stirrups, would be unappealing. Especially since, despite all laws surrounding doctor/patient confidentiality, everyone in the Wizarding world would find out. She couldn't bare the shame.

She buried her face in her hands. Her parents couldn't find out. They'd lost so much already; to find out that their only child had practically asked to be raped would be too much to put upon them.

"It's not your fault." Harry softly said, taking Hermione bandaged hand in his – her almost-rapist's defence spells had gotten her in several places. "Trust me."

_Sweet little Harry._ Despite the War, despite being a soldier, despite knowing he was raised as a pig for slaughter, despite all the neglect he had suffered as a child, he was still so naïve. He could not possibly understand.

"Harry, had I walked in dressed like I do when I'm here helping students, he wouldn't have attacked me." Men like that attacked women in short skirts and skimpy shirts. They did not attack conservatively dressed women a fraction as much.

"No; he might have attacked someone else." Harry reasoned. "Use your head."

She was; that was the problem. She was using her head for the first time in months.

"Get some sleep, 'Mione." Ron reached and stroked her hair back. "It's okay; we'll keep watch and make sure nothing happens to you."

Hermione bitterly laughed. Ron sounded as if he was talked to a six-year-old child. "Thank you, Ron, I think I'll be fine. You two go get some sleep."

She watched Ron and Harry exchange looks. Looks that meant they had a secret she wasn't telling her. "What?" She asked.

"We don't need sleep." Harry said. "I've been sleeping much better the past couple of nights."

Hermione had not slept properly in months. She always had nightmares rehashing the Snatchers trying to drag her away; had Harry not stopped them, they most certainly might have raped her.

Apparently sexual violation was her lot in life.

"Really?" She tried to sit up, but it worsened her headache. "How are you sleep? I mean, how are you getting to sleep?"

Ron coughed. Loudly.

Harry shrugged. "Ron, it's _Hermione_."

"She'll think I'm a queer!"

"So? She knows I am, and doesn't have a problem with that." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose. "I've been sleeping in his bed. In a completely non-sexual way. I think it helps because of, you know, company. Familiar smells and stuff like that."

Hermione knew she was staring, but found it hard to stop. They shared a bed at night? Harry, a teacher, shared a bed with Ron, a student? Even if it was non-sexual (which there was no way of proving to the Board of Governers), it was inappropriate. Harry could get accused of nepotism, and have his entire career slandered by it. Ron could have his future severely affected, as well.

_Think of how you feel, cuddled up against a warm body. Think about how much better you sleep when you are hearing the even breaths of someone else sleeping. Now imagine them being Harry or Ron; wouldn't you sleep much better with them than a stranger? And you wouldn't have to have sex with them._

She tried to smile. "That's nice. I'm glad that helps you."

"It could help you, too." Ron's eyes widened. "Harry's bed is bigger than mine – we could all-"

"Wouldn't that be a little weird?" Harry asked. "I mean, '_there's three in the bed and the little one said_'…"

That was a terrible idea. Besides all the chances of getting caught, there would be no way of passing it off as innocent efforts to get sleep. The gears in Hermione's head turned rapidly as she tried to digest what the boys were saying.

"Or maybe we could just monitor our Dreamless Sleep dosage." Harry said. "You should ask Madame Pomfrey for some, Hermione."

She refused to start a Dreamless Sleep habit. She had taken Truthful Sleep a few times, which showed you the truth in your dreams, but never Dreamless Sleep. It was very addictive, and deprived you of REM sleep, which was very important to feeling rested in the morning.

"Don't you dare take Dreamless Sleep." She warned. "I don't care what you use as a placebo, but don't take potions or Muggle drugs. They will kill you."

Ron held his hands up in surrender. "You're in a position to scold us, aren't- sorry. That was mean. Nevermind. So… you don't think it's weird that Harry and I have been sleeping together? Well, not _sleeping_ _together_, but sleeping in the same bed, together."

Was it weird? It was most certainly unusual for two grown men to share a bed, were they not in a sexual relationship. It had to most certainly make it awkward, now that Harry had come out of the closet as a homosexual. But if it gave them sleep, who was Hermione to judge? She knew better than most anyone what a precious thing sleep was.

"Well, if it's not hurting someone, whatever works." Perhaps Ginny would be a better alternative than random men. As of yet, that had not worked out so well.

**Coming Up Next In ****_Close My Eyes_****…  
>Chapter Seven: -unknown—<strong>

**A/N: **_Just when I was about to give up and admit I had lost every story file to this, after a year of denial, I found them. I am sorry for the extensive wait, and promise to have the rest up soon!_**  
><strong>


	7. You Can Never Go Back

**Disclaimer**:_ I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._

**Chapter Seven: You Can Never Go Back**

The Gryffindor common room was empty. The flickering fire in the fireplace created dancing shadows on the walls, creating the illusion that there was perhaps someone else in the room, but there wasn't.

There was only Harry.

He traced the plaque with his dad's name on it. He had given his dad a plaque, even though he had died so long ago. It served as a personal reminder to him, to make his parents proud, even though they were gone. He wondered why they thought about him. Did they like him? Did they think he was weak? Did they think it was dumb that he hadn't used the Killing Curse when facing Voldemort? Would they care that he was gay?

There were so many questions, and not a way to get answers. Were Sirius or Remus alive, he could ask them, and get an answer. But they were dead; Sirius didn't even get a plaque.

He wished for the old days. His first and second year at Hogwarts had been so innocent, so care-free. Despite all concerns over Snape and the Chamber of Secrets, they had not been anxiety-filled years. They had been trust-filled years. He had been a small child, and had simply trusted that it would all pan out in the end. He had not been afraid of dying. He supposed he had thought he was invincible.

How he longed for those days now.

He missed being kids with Ron and Hermione. He missed their innocent fun. He missed being on equal levels with all of them. Now things were so complex, so messed up. He had always felt like after the War, that after Voldemort was gone, things would go back to the way they were.

But they never would go back to that way, would things? No; they could only go forward, and to be honest, forward didn't look too exciting.

He snapped out of it, after hearing banging on the Fat Lady. No one banged on the Fat Lady like one did a door; it was rude. She couldn't feel it, but it was the equivalent to punching a person.

He wielded his wand, and moved over towards the Fat Lady. He paused, planning what spells he would use on the intruder, before opening the portrait hole.

It was Hermione.

"Harry!" Hermione sobbed, wrapping her arms around his arms. "Harry, she wouldn't let me in! She wouldn't tell me the password!"

"You're not a student." Harry nervously looked over to the Fat Lady. "She was just following the rules, Hermione. The password is 'chops and gravy'. Come in." He shot the Fat Lady an apologetic look as he led the weeping Hermione inside Gryffindor Tower.

"Don't feel bad." Harry comforted Hermione. He had never seen Hermione so weepy before. She was usually really strong.

"It's- It's not her!" Hermione sobbed. She was soaking Harry's shirt with her tears.

Harry led her over to the sofa. She had spent the entire day in the Hospital Wing, being checked out for emotional stuff. Madame Pomfrey and Ms. Wild were concerned over her mental state; apparently they thought it was sudden. Harry and Ron knew better. Hermione's turmoil was not sudden, but had started several years ago. How were they supposed to turn out perfectly normal, after the stress of being fourth-years involved in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, after Umbridge, after the Death Eater's attack on Hogwarts? It was only now, after all the terror had ceased, that the repercussions were able to beginning to show.

"Ron?" Harry tried not to call so loud to wake up other students. Typically, Ron was not such a help when it came to Hermione, as he often made things worse with his blunt way of speaking. He doubted Ron would act that way now though, with Hermione in such a state.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked Hermione. "Did something bad happen? Are you all right?"

Hermione began coughing as her sobs choked her.

"Hey, it's okay." Harry sat down on the sofa, easing Hermione's head on his chest. "It's okay; it's safe. We're at Hogwarts." That's hardly a comfort; how is Hogwarts a safe haven? Do you realise how many people have died here?

Harry moved Hermione's tear-dampened hair away from her face - it was greasy and sticky from the product she had put in it one night ago. "Voldemort is dead. Everyone is dead or in Azkaban. Nothing is trying to get at us."

Ron walked down the stairs from the boy's dormitory, in naught but his shorts. His muscled chest was littered in small ginger hairs. "Harry, you coming? I'm gonna go-" He stopped. "'Mione, you okay?"

And so began another round of tears.

Harry helplessly looked at Ron over Hermione's head. 'Help me', he mouthed.

Ron moved over to the sofa, and eased on it. "Hey, Hermione." He awkwardly patted her leg; she was wearing a pink nightgown that left little to the imagination.

She wiped at her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me; I was just having a nightmare, and-" She sniffed.

Ron smiled. "So you admit it; my idea was a good one."

"No!" She jerked from him and glared. "I'm not sleeping in your bed, Ron."

Ron looked much like a kicked puppy. "Why not? What's wrong with my bed?"

"Stop." Harry looked down at Hermione. "So you came up here for company?"

Miserably, Hermione nodded. "Mal-Malfoy Manor. Doesn't that-" she shuddered, and almost looked like she was about to collapse into tears again. He couldn't help but wonder how she possibly had any tears left.

Ron's eyes narrowed, and his grip on Hermione's leg tightened. "They can't touch you anymore. The Malfoys are still in trials; Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, and Draco, can still get the Kiss, you know."

Most of the Death Eaters had been Kissed immediately following the Battle at Hogwarts. Crabbe, Goyle, etc. Anyone who had not died in battle had been Kissed, and their soulless bodies sent to Azkaban. The Malfoys had managed to evade the Kiss, thus far. Lucius was very sneaky.

Hermione sniffed, wiping away tears. "I don't want Draco Malfoy to get Kissed!"

Harry was not aware Hermione had any particular bond with the Slytherin, and apparently neither was Ron. "What? You want the bastard roaming our streets?"

"How could you, Ron?" Hermione sat up, glaring at Ron. "He's one of us! We went to school with him! We played Quidditch against him!"

"He tried to kill Dumbledore!" Harry would never forget the determined look in Draco's eye. 'He's going to kill my family', Draco had said. It shook him up to remember - had Harry been put in that position, would he have murdered someone to save Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys?

"He's someone we know, though!" Hermione exclaimed. "He was a pain in our arse, he tried to get us into so much trouble, but it doesn't warrant the Kiss!"

Ron wrinkled his brow. "It doesn't?"

Hermione groaned, and covered her face with her hands. She laid backwards, so that her head laid in Harry's lap. "When did you two get so vindictive?"

Harry wasn't so sure he was supposed to answer that. He didn't see himself as vindictive; he just didn't get sentimental over Draco Malfoy. He supposed Hermione doing that was part of being a girl, though, something he would never understand.

Ron scooted closer. "I'm not vin-vin- I'm not whatever you just said. I just hate Draco Malfoy. And don't say that hate is an unhealthy emotion - I don't care."

Hermione stretched her legs over Ron's. Her eyes found the memorial wall. "Really nice." She changed the subject. "Why are the flowers dead?"

Harry groaned.

The three talked idly in the dim glow of the common room for some time. They did not discuss nightmares or their cause; they didn't need to know the details. They didn't need to know what the others dreamed about. It didn't matter what the specifics were.

Hermione's mouth opened in a yawn.

"How can you yawn when you're asleep?" Ron pointed out. "You yawn when you're tired - how can you be tired when you're asleep?"

"I don't know." Harry shifted, trying not to wake Hermione. Yes, Hermione had indeed fallen asleep on their laps.

Ron's finger traced Hermione's leg. "Is she okay, you think?"

"I don't know." Harry had never seen Hermione act like such a _girl_ before. She was a girl, and he knew it, but she was only so very rarely teary-eyed or overly emotional. She thought with her head, and not her heart; it was why he liked her so well.

Ron turned and looked at Harry. "Well, how are we supposed to go to bed, then? We can't just sleep here, sitting up, in the common room. What'll you say to everyone when they come down and find us all here?"

Harry would get killed in so many ways by McGonagall if he got caught sleeping in the Gryffindor common room, cuddled with Hermione and Ron. Especially with Ron and Hermione in so little clothing.

Panic filled Harry as he felt himself harden. _You're getting hard over Hermione - that's disgusting. She's Hermione. She's one of your best friends. You just outed yourself as gay, on top of it!_

He tried to even out his breathing, praying to whoever would listen to make his erection go away. Hermione's head was very close to the tent in his trousers; would she wake up if she felt it? What would she think?

"Mate, you okay?" Ron asked. "I asked you a question."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Harry tried to make his voice sound as normal as possible. "I was just, um, thinking. What, uh... what was the question?"

He watched as Ron's eyes went to Hermione, and quickly to the tent in his trousers, and then back to Harry. Rohn's eyes were wide. "What the hell?"

Ron wasn't stupid. He knew how the male anatomy worked, and how sometimes you were unable to control how your body reacted the various situations. He would understand how, despite your orientation and relationships, you could get hard - all it took was a temperature change.

But this was Hermione. Were it anyone else, Ron probably would have laughed it off.

Harry inhaled deeply. "Don't wake her up. Maybe we can-"

"What the hell?" Ron repeated. "What are you doing? Are you picturing her naked or something?"

Well, fuck; now he was.

_Think of something gross. Think of Dumbledore in a g-string. Was it wrong to use the dead in that manner? He rather thought it was._

"You're supposed to be gay!" Ron hissed, reaching for Hermione. "You're not supposed to be-"

Harry swatted Ron's hand away. "Don't wake her up; give me a minute. For all you know, I could be fantasizing about Sir Cadogon."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right; next you're going to tell me that-"

_McGonagall in a bikini. Mcgonagall naked. Slughorn. Slughorn on a nude beach. Slughorn on a nude beach, making out with McGonagall. Dudley and Uncle Vernon's bellies. Dudley. Uncle Vernon. Uncle Vernon in the shower._

He sighed, and looked over at Ron. "Don't worry; I'm not shagging your girlfriend."

Ron still looked disgusted. "She's not for grabs; can't you see she's vulnerable? Can't you see she's..." He stopped, his mouth opening slightly.

"What?" Harry looked back down at Hermione, and his diminishing erection. Hermione slept soundly. "What're you-"

Harry was unable to finish his sentence, as Ron's lips muffled his words.

Harry's eyes widened as Ron's rough lips smashed up against his. This was Ron; Ron's wasn't supposed to-

He pulled away. "'What the hell' is right!"

Ron's face was flushed. He panted, not saying anything.

Ron wasn't gay. Harry was the gay one. Ron was his best friend; he wasn't boyfriend material. Ron was-

Oh bugger. He could feel heat in his lower regions once again.

Ron cleared his throat. "Sorry; I was just, um, shit." He ran his fingers through his hair. "It was nothing. It was nothing. I was just, um..."

Ron's hair stuck up all over the place. It was rather funny looking, but Harry was in no mood to laugh.

Ron had kissed him. Snogged him. Tried to make out with him. Ron. Of all people - Ron!

_And what's wrong with that? You love Ron. You know him better than you know almost everybody. You will always love Ron. He loves you more than almost anybody. You sleep in the same bed now. He smells nice, and who has to know?_

Ron licked his lips. "Sorry." He croaked. "I'm just going to-"

"No, stay." Harry touched Ron's arm. "Just give me a moment."

_It's just sex. Everybody has friendly sex, don't they? Friends with benefits, sex without strings. Sex without having to worry about getting any STDs, because you know Ron is clean. There's nothing to lose._.

He looked up at Ron. The built arms, the defined chest. He really was quite good looking, and-

The pressure was enormous. He squirmed, trying to ease it. It hardly worked.

"I'm sorry, Harry." Words began tumbling out of Ron's mouth. "I'm sorry; I don't know what I was thinking. Let's just-"

"Try again?" Harry interrupted.

Ron blinked, and his mouth dropped open. "What?"

Harry leaned over and placed his mouth over Ron's, kissing him lightly. He pulled away just enough to say "let's try again" before returning his lips to Ron's.

Harry shut his eyes, breathing in the smell of Ron's sweat, and the faint smell of his cologne he had put on that morning. Ron's lips were aggressively smashed against his - he felt Ron's large hand behind his head, pushing his head closer to him.

He opened his eyes. The golden glow of the common room made Ron's red hair appear on fire. The day-old stubble on Ron's chin scratched Harry's chin.

Ron's tongue forced entry into Harry's mouth.

Harry gasped as Ron's tongue began exploring his mouth, running across the back of his teeth. His tongue prodded under Harry's, forcing Harry to reciprocate.

Other men Harry had kissed tasted similar; breath mints, gum, mouth cologne, etc. They didn't taste like Ron; he tasted strongly of pudding and digestive biscuits, and what was more, he didn't seem to care.

_You shouldn't be doing this_, his mind raced as Ron leaned over him, shifting his position so that he was nearly on top of him. _Not Ron. Not a Weasley. Not another Weasley. Not Ron. Not your best friend._

He moaned as Ron's mouth retreated to his throat. The warm breath against his throat, suckling his skin. He arched his back, and dropped his hand to slide underneath his trousers.

"Stop it!" Ron was blasted over the back of the couch, to the carpet of the common room. "What are you doing?"

Hermione stood, eyes ablaze. Her hair stood out wildly around her face. Her nostrils flared, her cheeks flushed.

Harry's stomach convulsed. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control over his body.

"'Mione." Ron was breathless. He stood up behind the sofa. "You-You were asleep."

"What were you doing?" She cried out, pointing her wand at Ron. "This instant! What is going on?"

That was a fairly easy question to answer, on the surface. They had been making out on the sofa, and Hemrione stopped them. That, unfortunately, would be not be the answer she was looking for. He knew better than to even try answering with that.

"Hermione." Ron's voice squeaked. "We were- we thought you were asleep."

"How do you think I'm supposed to sleep through that!" Hermion screeched.

Harry had never seen Hermione look so angry. He could not help but notice, through the thin fabric of her lingerie, that her nipples were hard and pointed - he supposed that happened to girls when they got mad.

"Hermione, we-" He tried.

"And you!" She pointed her wand at him. "You were trying to- trying to masturbate with me on your lap!"

Harry guiltily looked over at Ron. He hadn't meant to really start jerking off - it had been a reflex, almost. He had needs that Ron hadn't been taking care of. "I promise I wasn't going to get you messy. I was going to aim away from you."

"Eww!" Hermione strode over to Ron and grabbed him by his ear. "Sit down!"

"Ouch!" Ron robbed his ear as he sat down on the sofa, pointedly on the opposite end from where Harry was sitting. "You're not my mum!"

"Let me tell you, Ronald Weasley, once your mum finds out you were kissing Harry, she'll do a lot more than pull your ear!" Hermione was livid.

Ron sat up straight. "You're not going to tell her?"

"Oh, I am!"

Mrs. Weasley couldn't find out. It would change his friendship with the family forever. He felt ike the Weasleys were his own family. He didn't want to lose them.

"You can't!" Harry said. "It's none of your business!"

Hermione's threw her hands up in the air. "How is it none of my business? You two are my best friends - you're not supposed to be intimate like that!"

"Who says?" Ron challenged, rising off of the sofa, towering over Hermione. "What's wrong with it? I can kiss Harry if I want! Just like, if I want, I can do this." He planted a kiss on Hermione's lips.

Hermione shoved Ron away. "Don't do that!"

"Do what? This?" Ron planted another kiss. "Or this." He covered one of Hermione's round breasts with his hand.

Hermione's eyes flashed, but she didn't move. "What are you doing?"

Ron didn't answer. He just stood, waiting for Hermione to make the next move. His eyes stared into hers and hers back - it was rather like watching a staring contest.

Finally, Harry couldn't take it anymore. "Stop it." He stood, separating them so that Ron's hand was no longer on Hermione's breast.

Hermione looked at Harry. "Don't you two realise what you're doing? Don't you realise how quickly this can derail? Don't you realise what will happen if it does? Don't you-"

"I realise Ron's not going any place." Harry said. "He's going to be here forever, and he understands me. He understands everything I've been through, even if he wasn't there."

She put her hands on her hips. "And I don't?"

Hermione did, too. She had been there through it all. Ever since Harry's first year, two months into starting Hogwarts, she had been there. She had been a constant in Harry's life, never far when he really truly needed her. She had been through it all with him.

"You've been here, too." He placed his hand on her shoulder. "I just..."

She tilted her head. He eyes glittered in the light, but tears did not fall. "I'm just so confused."

Harry kissed her forehead. "So are we."

Two hours later, clothes were strewn all over the common room. One could follow a trail of lingerie, boots, and shorts to the sofa, where three bodies laid entangled and entwined.

"We shouldn't be doing this." Hermione whispered.

Ron kissed the top of her head, while caressing Harry's face with his foot. "Just close your eyes to it."


	8. The First Letter

**Disclaimer**: _I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story_.

**Chapter Eight: The First Letter**

The Great Hall looked different from the Head table. You saw everything from a different perspective from the elevated position, looking over the room. It was incredible watching the small first-years reach for bread over the tables - they looked so small. It was difficult to believe she had ever been that tiny.

She glanced over at Harry, who stood tall at his place beside the new Transfiguration teacher and Flitwick. His green eyes were focused on McGonagall, who was about to make an announcement. She caught his eye though, and he gave her a quick grin.

"Students, may I have your attention, please? Students." McGonagall did not have the commanding presence of Dumbledore or Snape; she had to raise her voice and tap her glass to get the attention of the Hogwarts students.

Hermione held her hands in front of her, and then moved them behind her. Both felt awkward, but she had to do something with her hands.

"With us is Hermione Granger." McGonagall said once she had everyone's attention. "She will be staying with Professor Potter for the next several weeks."

Weeks. Months. Years. Who could know? What were her plans, exactly? To stay at Hogwarts instead of going home to her parents for how long? How long was she going to live with Harry?

She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself. Harry had talked her into staying at Hogwarts. He and Ron had convinced her that for her mental and emotional health, it would be best. That way she could have regular visits with Ms. Wild, and be able to be with Ron or Harry at night.

_At night_. Two nights ago, she had done something she had never thought she would do. She had slept with not only Ron, but Harry. Not just Harry, but Ron and Harry. On the common room sofa, of all places.

She had slept with Ron before. Many times, in fact. Their first had been a chilly night last year, while Harry was out for a walk. Hermione had been a virgin, but hadn't been scared; she trusted Ron. She knew he had some experience with Lavender Brown, and knew he would never physically hurt her.

But Harry she had never dreamed she would be sexually intimate with. He wasn't physically her type. She preferred men who were tall, built, who could take care of her. She supposed it was her Muggle heritage, because Harry could protect her better than Ron, regardless of physical strength.

She loved Harry, but didn't know that she loved him like that. Regardless, he was very good in bed, a very gentle, selfless lover; Hermione had never experienced that before. Not even with Ron, who was gentle, but could get a bit too rough.

But with Harry, she felt comfortable. She didn't feel the need to suck in her stomach or keep her hair tamed. She supposed she had been truly intimate with both boys for a long time; she had let them know her fully for years. It was only now that it extended towards sexual things.

"You will show her the same respect extended towards teachers, parents, and other elders." McGonagall continued. "Failure to do so will result in the same loss of privileges disrespect towards teachers will. She will continue assisting Ms. Wild in student care - everyone, please give Miss Granger a warm Hogwarts welcome!"

She barely heard the students' applause. _But how long can we keep this up?_ It was true that she felt so comfortable, so safe, in the arms of either Harry or Ron - or both. When she wasn't thinking about how wrong the three of them in one bed was, she was actually quite happy. Happier than she had been in bed with one of her one-night stands.

_They know. They all know_, she thought as she sat down in her chair. She watched breakfast appear in front of her, but couldn't eat it. She felt as if she had the words 'dirty' plastered on her forehead, as if everyone who looked at her would know.

_A giant A_, she grimly thought, looking down at her lap. _I should get an A embroidered on my blouses.._

It wouldn't appear obvious to everyone that she, Harry, and Ron had begun a scandalous threesome. They had agreed that it was just between them, and took care to keep it that way. They did not kiss in public, or grope on each other where people could see. As far as people knew, she was sleeping on Harry's fold-out sofa, not in his bed. Ron was staying in his dormitory.

She caught Trelawney looking at her, and prayed that she didn't know. Trelawney had only proven herself as a Seer twice, but that said, she _was_ a Seer; she could tell things most people couldn't.

And then she caught Ron's eye. He was sitting at the Gryffindor table, stuffing his face with sausage. He winked a blue eye at her.

She blushed and looked down at her lap, a giggle escaping her. She had not felt flutters, like she was a schoolgirl in love, in what seemed like forever. It was a good feeling. A refreshing feeling.

_If being with both Ron and Harry makes me feel like this_, what's the harm? She sampled a bit of toast. _No one is getting hurt, after all._

**o-O-o**

He pushed his glasses up his nose, and put his hand on Slughorn's shoulder.

Slughorn jumped. "Oh, my boy! You gave me a fright." The man put his hand over his heart. "I didn't hear you."

_You were sleeping. Of course you didn't hear me_. "It's late; why don't you let me take over? You've got an early Potions class in the morning."

The Hogwarts corridors were dim, supplied only with the light of torches on the walls, and from Harry's wand. One could hear a pin drop, and echo down the halls. The school was only this quiet in the dead of night; even Peeves was off on his own, silent.

"Are you sure? You have double Defence in the morning, you do realise." Slughorn raised an uneven eyebrow.

Harry sighed. Hermione had never come up to his room. Ron wasn't allowed to sleep there. He was hardly able to sleep on his own.

"I'm fine; I can't sleep." Harry said.

Slughorn nodded. "Well, meet Fillius on the fourth floor in an hour; he will take over the shift."

Harry watched Slughorn's teetery shadow disappear around the hall. He sighed again, rubbing his temples with his hand. The past few days had been an endless amount of craziness.

He had kissed Ron. He had bottomed for Ron. Of all people to shag him, Ron had. And Harry had shagged Hermione - _Hermione_. At the same time. He couldn't believe it.

Harry had had all sorts of wild fantasies in his life. He had imagined shagging the entirety of Manchester's Quidditch team. He had once had a dream, in vivid detail, of sucking Oliver Wood, while Oliver whispered dirty things in his ear. He had even, quite briefly, entertained the idea of a threesome after realising his attraction to men.

But the idea had never been serious! He had never given the people faces, never imagined what or how they would do. It had just been that, a passing idea. An idea that passed in less than thirty seconds. He had never truly considered it, and had he, he doubted he would have considered Ron and Hermione!

He put his hand over his neck, where Ron had left all sorts of hickeys. Love bites, Hermione had called them. Harry just thought they were hickeys. Who knew that Ron could be so aggressive, and yet passionate? Ron, of all people.

Harry shook his head. Hermione. Hermione was so soft, so gentle. She was actually quite beautiful; Harry had never really stopped to think about it before. He had always stopped at the bushy hair, he supposed. He had never stopped to imagine what was underneath the cardigans and stockings. He had never stopped to think of how her loving compassionate nature could translate when she was more than a friend.

He loved them both. It made him kind of uncomfortable to think about their relationship, though; they had been together far before he had intervened. They had been together months before. What would happen if they decided to leave him alone? How could he move on from that?

He turned around quickly, shining his wand in the face of the person he felt coming up behind him.

"It's just me, Professor!" It was Frenchie Dawn, the new Transfiguration teacher. She held her arms up in defence. "I was just checking to make sure the prefects had gone to bed - it is one o'clock. That is their curfew."

That made sense. Harry didn't know all the prefects rules - he had never been one. "Oh, well, um, are you working your way up or down?"

She gave him a curious eye. "Up - my quarters are on the first floor, Professor Potter."

He hated being called 'Professor Potter'. It sounded horrible. It sounded dumb. "You can call me 'Harry'," he said. "And I'll work my way up the stairs and check - I didn't see any prefects or students on my way down, though."

She smiled. "You're a doll, Harry. Would you like to come to my quarters once you're done with your watch?"

Why would he want to go to her quarters? Her quarters were on the first floor, as were the Transfiguration classrooms. He hated Transfiguration - why would he go there if he didn't have to?

"Um, no thanks. Goodnight, Professor." He walked over to the stairs, jumping on one just in time as it floated up to the fifth floor.

He hadn't seen any prefects on the fourth or fifth floor. He was turning the corner of the sixth floor corridor, to quickly check, when a sound stopped him. A moan. And not the kind that were a result from pain.

He peeked across the corner, not wanting to interrupt a love fest between two teachers, though what two teachers it was, he was very curious.

They were not teachers. It was Ron, out past his curfew, and his missing Hermione. Ron was fully clothed, leaning over Hermione. Her trousers and knickers were twisted around her ankles; she was moaning as Ron's tongue snaked out to between her legs.

Harry leaned back against the wall, heart beating rapidly. They were having sex. Without him. In a very public place, where a ghost could float in any moment. At a school, where it was hardly appropriate.

Of course they would have fun without him. Just as he would with Ron when Hermione wasn't around, or with Hermione when Ron wasn't around. It wasn't being unfaithful or mean; getting three people together, in the mood, was difficult. Ron had classes and homework, Harry had lessons to plan, and Hermione had a family to put back together. There would be times, quite frequently, when it would just be a duo, instead of a trio.

And that was okay. It wasn't like Harry was officially involved with either one of them, despite how much he had considered it of late.

He thought it would be quite amusing to sneak up on Ron and Hermione, and scare them. It would serve them right, for having sex in such an open place. Where students could be roaming, to add to it!

He hadn't brought his invisibility cloak with him. Fearing it could become tattered with use or lost, he had it hid in his trunk. He wasn't supposed to need it to troll around Hogwarts after dark - he was an adult for going on two years. It made sneaking up on friends

(_lovers? partners? girlfriends and boyfriends?_)

quite difficult, however.

He dropped down on his stomach, and slithered towards them on the stone floor. He had to be careful on how he angled up to them, so that neither would spot him.

"Oh, God!" Hermione cried out.

Harry froze. Being flat on the floor was a very uncomfortable place to develop a hard-on.

Ron acting like a child given sweets was a great distraction, giving Harry plenty of time to sneak. In fact, it seemed neither Ron or Hermione noticed him, right until he wanted to.

"Boo!" He jumped out from behind a gargoyle.

"Fuck!" Ron and Hermione jumped apart. Hastily, Hermione pulled up her knickers and trousers, while Ron pointed his wand at Harry; his chin was dripping with a translucent white liquid.

Harry held his hands up in surrender. "Just me."

"Harry, I'll kill you!" Hermione strode over and shoved him. She was noticeably shaking; her face was ashen. "I thought you were Peeves!"

"Yeah, can't you hear him telling all of Hogwarts?" Ron still kept his wand pointed. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Harry still didn't see the cause for alarm; it had only ended up being him, after all. "I was thinking, what are two attractive people such as yourselves doing having oral sex outside Professor Sinistra's office?" He raised a brow. "Seems rather... counter-productive, if you're trying to have a good time without paranoia."

Some people liked public sex, Harry knew. But public sex in a public school facility was an extremely bad idea, especially when you were trying to keep your relationship under wraps. Especially if you wanted to keep your job.

Ron's face reddened. "I should kill you! You almost gave us heart attacks!"

Harry reached out and lowered Ron's wand arm. "I realise you two will be getting it on without me sometimes, but could you at least do it in private? Voyeurism isn't one of my kinks."

"Voyager-what?" Ron frowned.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, wipe your face off, Ronald!" Hermione sank back down on the floor. "We're sorry; we got carried away."

Carried away? People got carried away all the time, but you didn't usually see an orgy on Diagon Alley! He took a deep breath, trying not to overreact. "Okay."

Ron sat back down on the floor. "And even if they caught me and Hermione, it wouldn't be like people would suspect us for what we are. People know me and Hermione are datimg, you know."

"What exactly are we, anyhow?" Hermione asked, patting a spot of stone between her and Ron for Harry to take a seat. Her fringe was plastered to her forehead with sweat. "I hardly like the term 'threesome' - it seems very temporary, very instant. Group marriages are hardly legal, and we are not married. Polygomists have multiple spouses, but the spouses are not married to one another."

Hermione didn't like the term 'threesome' because it seemed temporary. But what was this? It couldn't last forever. Eventually, Ron and Hermione would get married and have babies, just like Harry always knew they would. This sort of relationship was unnatural, unhealthy.

_Close your eyes to it, Harry Potter._

"Why do we need labels, though?" Harry asked, sitting down between them. "Can't we just be Harry, Ron, and Hermione, in a relationship?"

Ron snorted. "I have a _relationship_ with Errol."

"Grow up, Ron; Harry means a sexual relationship." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Unless you snog Errol in your spare time, in which I suggest therapy."

Her comment about therapy was hardly funny. "We'll think of something - just promise me that wherever or whenever we have sex, you guys will be more careful?" Harry didn't add that he expected better out of Hermione; he knew how fragile she was at the moment.

Ron placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder before giving Harry a quick kiss. "Don't worry; no one will ever find out."

**o-O-o**

Harry had never been a big breakfast eater. He was always hungry by lunch, but never was for breakfast. It aided his problem that he was not in the habit of eating breakfast - mornings at Hogwarts had always been filled with dashing off last minute essays, and he hardly got a chance to eat breakfast when living with the Dursleys.

His favourite part about breakfast was post time. He missed Hedwig terribly, and relied on school owls to deliver his post. It was sad to not see his snowy owl fly over to his table with letters or packages. Not that he got many in the past.

He received quite a bit of post now, all fanmail, or laced with potions, hexes, and charms. Hermione suggested that he get 'people' to take care of the fanmail for him, but he had not done that as of yet - letters that were clearly fanmail or addressed to the wrong address were generally dumped into the rubbish bin by the post people.

A large tawny owl dropped a letter into Harry's syrup, before flying away to deliver another student's mail.

HaRRy PoTtEr, the front of the envelope read. HoGWArts ScHoOl of witChCrAft ANd wiZarDRy. DEFence DePT. FloOr 3, OFFice 5. SCOtlanD.

Harry frowned, and turned the sticky envelope over in his hands. He had never received a letter with newsprint cutouts - it was odd.

Nevertheless, he tested the letter for hexes before opening it - his mouth dropped open as he read the letter's text.

"What is that?" Professor Dawn leaned over towards him.

His mouth was dry. He stood up so quickly that his chair fell to the floor with a resounding noise. "Sorry. Gotta pee."


	9. Without a Plan

**Disclaimer**:_ I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story_.

**Chapter Nine: Without a Plan**

i KNoW yoUr SecREts. i KNOw thE NaTUrE of YOUr relATioNShiP WiTH yOUr frIEndS. I WiLl TElL ThE PrOPhEt UnLEsS YoU lEAvE 20000 gaLLeOns UnDErneAtH thE ThIRd FLoWEr POT to THe LEfT at ThE thReE broOMStiCks In HOgsMeADe.

Do NOT stay TO WAtch. do NOt invOlVe AuRoRs. I wIll KnOW.

"Um, maybe he didn't use magic." Ron suggested, leaning against a bare wall in Harry's office. "Maybe he just-"

"Shut up!" Hermione's face was red, fighting back tears as she cast yet another spell on the mysterious letter. "Let me concentrate!"

Ron turned to Harry and shrugged. "Doesn't make sense; it's got to be-"

Harry felt too sick to his stomach to debate it. He sank in the chair behind his desk. "Who is it from, do you think?" His mind reeled with the possibilities. Who had seen them? A house-elf? Disregarding their indiscretions a fortnight ago outside Professor Sinistra's office, no one had had a chance to see them be intimate. They had been extraordinarily careful.

"If you two would be quiet, I could find out!" Hermione growled. She had insisted on going over the letter with spells, trying to find fingerprints, magical traces, and whatnot. She had so far been unsuccessful.

They could narrow it down to 1.5% of the human world population; it was either a wizard or witch. It didn't have to necessarily be someone they knew; they were worldwide public figures. It could be anyone, from a student currently at Hogwarts, or a tourist from Bangkok who had seen them at the Three Broomsticks.

It could have been sent by anybody.

The letter spontaneously combusted into flames.

"Shit! _Aqua Agumenti_!" A jet of water bursted from the tip of Harry's wand, effectively putting out the fire and soaking Hermione in the process.

"Really smooth." Ron said for Hermione, who stood agape, too shocked to speak.

It was only after they put a drying charm on Hermione that she spoke again. "Who would do this? 20,000 Galleons? Harry, do you know how much that is? That translates into nearly 200,000 quid! That is a lot of money!"

Harry knew it was a lot of money; it was all he had in the Potter vault. Granted, he had the Black vaults also, which were overflowing with gold, but it wasn't about running out of money. It was about running out of the money his parents had left him. It was about blackmail, paying someone to keep their mouths shut, over something that was none of their business.

"Let's Owl Kingsley." Ron said. "Let's make up a different blackmailing reason. We can tell Kingsley that you're gay, and don't want this bloke to announce it. See? That wouldn't even be a lie."

Harry didn't want Kingsley to know he was gay. Harry felt very much a man, but hardly the former Head of the Auror Department (now campaigning for Minister) would have the same opinion.

"That won't work, Ron; he would insist on seeing the letter." Hermione ran her fingers through her hair, staring down at the ashes of the threatening letter on the floor. "I hardly think he will listen to us if we don't have proof of a threat."

Ron slammed his fist on the desk. "But he's Harry Potter!"

_Yeah, I'm Harry Potter. The Saviour Of the World. The Boy Who Lived. And I'm in a bisexual threesome. Let's let the whole world know._

"Kingsley won't look at it that way. Harry's life isn't being threatened, and he is not in danger in any way. Even if we could show him the letter, insisting it's not true, he won't help us just because of libel." Hermione began to pace the Defence classroom. "All right; who could possibly know?"

Back in the day, Harry would have suspected either Dumbledore or Snape. The two knew everything... but it couldn't be them. They were dead.

"Who do we know who knows Legillimency?" Harry asked. "They could have read our minds."

"There is no need to produce a license for Legillimency, the way an Animagi has to." Hermione explained, pulling herself on the desk. "It could be anyone."

"Professor Dawn." Ron's eyes darkened. "Have you seen how she looks at Harry? How she feels him up underneath the table?"

Harry felt himself turn crimson. "It was one time!" She had only squeezed his knee; that was hardly feeling anyone up.

"But when would she have seen us?" Ron asked. "Or even got an idea about, you know, us?"

'_You're a doll, Harry. Would you like to come to my quarters once your done with your watch_?' "She was out that night!" Harry remembered. "She had been looking for prefects! She said she was going back to bed, but maybe she followed me upstairs!"

Ron was pale, freckles standing out on his face. "Wha-What do we do?"

"We don't need to jump to conclusions regarding suspects." Hermione said. "Remember how we thought Professor Snape was after the philosopher's stone?"

"It wasn't an uneducated guess." Harry remembered.

"Yes, well." Hermione huffed. "What would be Professor Dawn's motive?"

Ron growled, crossing his arms over his chest. "To get into Harry's trousers."

Harry felt briefly nauseated. "But why would I want to sleep with someone who blackmailed me? I don't get it."

"Her motive may not be as clear as that." Hermione tapped Harry's desk with her plain fingernails. "She is a woman. As women, we have many thoughts and emotions, and sometimes run off of the latter. Her reasoning may not be as clearly defined as you two are thinking it is."

Harry had heard all about that. Men compartmentalised everything, while for women, everything was connected. He couldn't imagine how everything was connected. "Well, if it's not her, who could it be?"

"That guy at the Three Broomsticks?" Hermione suggested. "That makes the pick-up location very convenient, and he could watch us without being noticed."

"We were there the other night; maybe we said something that gave it away." Ron leaned forward.

Harry didn't like the Irish man too much. He made Harry wonder if he was that bleeding obvious. "But what would his motive be?"

"The money, of course." Hermione said. "The control over Harry Potter. The fame bringing to light a scandalous secret would bring him."

"Well, why wouldn't Professor Dawn have the same motive?" Harry didn't understand.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Women don't thrive off of control, typically, the way men do. She has a very well-paying job, and does not seem to live outside of her means. Being a teacher of Transfiguration, she is very talented, and can save more money than the average person through it."

That... made a bit of sense. The gay waiter had to be broke with the money he spent on his clothing. "So how do we find out?"

"Yeah." Ron said. "And what do we tell George? I want to enlist him to create a booby-trap."

Hermione didn't smile. "Before tonight, I don't see how we can find out."

Ron's grin faded. "We... can't?"

"No; Harry has five classes to teach, and a parent/teacher meeting. I've got to meet with three children, and a colleague of Ms. Wild." Hermione gritted her teeth. "And you, Ronald, have to complete that Divination project."

"But it's no fun without Harry helping me!" Ron whinged.

Harry sighed. "I'll help you later, Ron; I promise. Broken toes, a lost game of Exploding Snap, falling off your broom, getting kicked in the balls by Emily Swanson." He turned to Hermione. "Are you saying we set a sack of 20,000 Galleons behind a flower pot?"

She brought a handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away nay tears. "Do you have another suggestion?"

HARRY POTTER: BISEXUAL THREESOME SCANDAL. That would be terrible. He could never leave his house again. And what of Hermione and Ron? Their families would be so ashamed. They would probably disown them. They wouldn't understand. He couldn't do that to Hermione and Ron. He couldn't.

Harry took a deep breath. "I'll get the money." Keeping his bank vault in balance was a non-issue; protecting Ron, Hermione, and their privacy together was.

**o-O-o**

He walked as quickly as he could down the street. He kept his head low, pointed hat pulled down over his ears. Everything was blurry, but he could still make out the shapes of things.

The Three Broomsticks was crowded for a Thursday evening. There seemed to be some sort of celebration going on, likely somebody's birthday. He had never had a big birthday celebration.

He looked at the pavement leading into the pub. There were five large flowerpots on each side, each plant serving a different purpose. One took care of the insects, and one began to screech if danger was near. It wasn't screeching; Harry hoped that was a good sign.

He lifted the sack out from his deep pockets. It was heavy; gold weighed quite a bit, and 20,000 pieces added up quickly. It seemed quite cavalier, leaving so much money behind a flowerpot, but that was what the blackmailer requested; Harry was in no position to argue.

His mouth went dry. _Blackmailer_. That was what Hermione had called the person who sent the letter. _Blackmail_. It seemed like such a terrible word, and made it all seem much scarier.

He glanced again around him, making sure no one was looking at him oddly. If someone recognised him, or saw what he was doing, things would not go well. He could hardly leave 20,000 Galleons on the ground if someone was watching Harry Potter, and if someone happened to spy what he did, they would no doubt investigate.

They had considered which one of them to send for only a short time. Ron was out of the question; not only did he have to abide by the school rules, but his carrot hair drew attention. Hermione did not have a curfew, as she was not a student, but she had been quite nervous about the idea of going to a pub, alone, at night. She had not had the best experience at one recently, after all.

That had left Harry. Removing his glasses, putting a hat on his head to cover the scar, keeping his head down, had so far done the trick. He had doubted how well it would work, but he was surprised; perhaps the shadows kept people from recognising him.

Swiftly, he dropped the sack of money on the ground. The coins inside made a loud noise, but no one seemed to notice over all the to-do indoors.

He looked around again, just to make sure no one standing outside had seen him. As they didn't appear to, he walked quickly away, swallowing hard. They were safe.

They didn't get any sleep that night. Ron had ended up staying all night at Harry's; they were bound to pay for it in the morning, but it was not as if anyone would expect a threesome. They would think they stayed up all night talking, and would think nothing of it. People knew that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were close (though how close, they had no idea).

And to tell the absolute truth, they would be right. They had done little more than talk. First on the sofa, and then in the bed, charmed to fit the three of them. Occasionally, one of them would doze, but not for long; they would always wake up with the horrible realisation of what was happening to them.

It made Harry sick. Part of him was sick with nervousness; what if the blackmailer demanded more? What more could he or she demand? How had they found out? What would the Grangers think if they found out? What would the Weasleys think? Would they hate Harry and Hermione forever? Would they still love Ron? Would they take him off their clock, the way the Black family had done to Sirius with the tapestry ?

The other part was regret. What had they gotten themselves into? What had Harry encouraged, and consented to? Why had he let it get this far?

Perhaps regret was not the right word. He had a feeling that if he had a Time-Turner and went back knowing what he knew, he would still do it again.

He turned over, breathing in Ron's scent, feet entangled in Hermione's. _It will all blow over. Whatever will happen, will happen. Just be happy now, while you can._


	10. The Burrow

**Disclaimer**:_ I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story._

Chapter Ten: The Burrow

Autumn gave way to winter, and with winter came tiny flakes of snow. It fell from the dark sky, skies that seemed to sense the mood in the compartment; gloomy and stormy. It was as if the very sky reflected the ongoing circumstances in the lives of those underneath it.

"Keep moving, keep moving." Harry ushered a long string of first-years back to their respective compartments. "You don't go see the pie cart lady; she comes to you. She won't run out of food; everyone gets a turn."

He glanced behind him, half-expecting to see Draco standing there, a smirk on his face. But of course he wasn't there; Draco would never again be on the Hogwarts Express. He would never again walk the hallowed halls of Hogwarts as an arrogant prick; he was facing a possible sentence in Azkaban.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, but it only made him dizzy. Ignoring it, he continued down the train, making sure no students were making a ruckus.

Satisfied that the only problems entailed spooky stories about students freezing in a snowdrift, he headed back to the back compartment, finding exactly what he had left.

Hermione breathed an audible sigh of relief when Harry re-entered the compartment. "Good, you're safe."

Of course he was safe. What could possibly go wrong in a school train, save Draco and a Dementor? And they were both gone.

"'Mione was 'fraid you'd been pushed off or somethin'." Ron's mouth was full of pumpkin pasty.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron." Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "What took you so long?"

Harry explained to her the issues he encountered while walking the length of the train. "I kept expecting to encounter Crabbe and Goyle or something. Isn't it weird that they aren't here?"

Harry had not ridden the Hogwarts Express since the end of the 1996-1997 school year. Although that was only a year and a half ago, it seemed so much longer. He felt like last time he rode it, he had been a child. And in technical terms he had been, but in a year and a half, he had gotten old. As old as Dumbledore. He was probably sprouting grey hairs.

Neither Ron nor Hermione answered; Hermione just nodded, patting Ron's hand.

They had had a whirlwind of an autumn. Between work, school, worries, secrets, rampant emotions, and trying to maintain some sort of social life, they were exhausted. Christmas break was a godsend in that way, as it gave them a bit of a breather.

Ron had been the first to announce his plans of going home. He had said that he wanted to be there for his family, as it was his mum's first Christmas in so many years without Fred. And while part of that was most certainly true, Ron had a tell; you could always tell when he was lying. Harry suspected the truth of the matter was was that he missed his family, and just wanted to get out of the school.

He couldn't blame him.

Harry had talked to various professors, and convinced McGonagall that since no Gryffindor students were staying over the holidays, he didn't need to be there. He was given the duty of chaperoning students on and off the train, a coveted position the staff members of Hogwarts hoped for each year.

Since Harry's mum and dad were dead, he had no family to go to for Christmas holiday. The Dursleys did not count as family; they didn't want Harry, and Harry didn't want them, He had therefore decided to accompany Ron to the Burrow; it would be nice, he had realised, to sleep the two of them in Ron's room.

For once, no one would suspect a thing.

But that left Hermione alone, and that was no good. She wanted to be with her parents over holiday, and had even gone as far as to purchase a aeroplane ticket to Aruba with them. But her plans had changed that morning, with the morning post.

"It's okay." Hermione voiced. "He will make a mistake, and when he does, we will catch him."

Sherlock Holmes, Hermione was not. The guy hadn't left fingerprints on his letters, or used magic. He hadn't used anything but newspaper clippings, clippings that could easily not be from the Prophet. The owl he had used was one from the Hogsmeade post office, identified by the tag around its leg, but that was hardly useful; anyone could go to Hogsmeade to send letters.

That was right; _letters_. Hermione had refused to hope that the blackmailer would just leave them alone after receiving his 20,000 Galleons, and she had been right; they had received a new letter in the post just that morning.

mR. rONalD weaSleY,

hOw do YOu liKe FUcKinG pottEr? hoW dO YOu liKe fuCkinG hIM wHIle HE IS iN grAngER?

I haVe CONnecTIoNs to A poPuLar FICtIon auTHor but im SUrE thIs NEw inFoRMatiOn wILl haVe heR brAnchInG Out To a nEw GenRe. PerHaPs bIogrAphY, no?

'YoU ARe KeePEr of GRyFfinDOr HouSE's tEAm. LoSE thE NeXt MAtcH, AgAiNSt HUFflEPuFf. JANuArY 17Th, 1998. OR YoU wiLL be REAdinG yoUR secReTs iN PrInt.

"But Hufflepuff?" Ron's voice squeaked. "Hufflepuff? Why Hufflepuff? If he wanted his house to win the house cup, why not make us lose against Ravenclaw? Or Slytherin?"

Hermione frowned. "Are you insinuating that he isn't a Hufflepuff? Terrible people come from all Houses, and all walks of life."

"Yeah, but Slytherin turns out the worst of the bunch." Harry pointed out. "And how do we know he is a he? Maybe he is a... she." He had known the Half-Blood Prince was a bloke because of the handwriting. This person used newsprint; anyone could do that.

"Yeah. Maybe he is a she, and she is Rita Skeeter." Ron's eyes widened. "Skeeter would probably admit to herself that she writes fake stuff, and would use it as a threat in a letter that mentions her anonymously... you know?"

"And that's how she knows what we're doing; because of her Animagus!" Harry's heart jumped into his throat; how had the answer been this simple the whole time, and they not noticed it?

Hermione frowned. "I do think she is a Hufflepuff..." she absent-mindedly tickled her chin with her quill. "But it doesn't make sense; most people, once disconnected from the school, lose their serious House rivalry, and only bring it up for fun. Take Ron's parents, for example; can you imagine any of them being seriously offended if Gryffindor lost a Quidditch game?"

"Yeah." Ron's eyes darkened. "When Slytherin cheats."

"Oh, honestly, Ronald!" Hermione sighed. "It is just so petty! Why would he - or she - care? If it is Skeeter, all it gives her to write about is an article about how Ron Weasley missed the Quaffle every time; that's not the kind of rubbish she looks for."

"Yes, but if it has my name in it, it might sell." Ron insisted.

"No, it won't. It would only sell if the article featured Harry, otherwise people don't care." Hermione turned and looked out the window. "That is the problem; were we anyone else, no one would care enough to write an article about us. So what if we are involved? No one would care to find out or gossip about it. Were it not for You-Know-Who's death..." she clicked her tongue.

It didn't take fame or an article for parents, friends, and family to find out about one's sexuality or who they were sexually intimate with. Knowledge of that amongst even the smallest circle of people could destroy a reputation for hundreds of years; Harry would never be able to bear it if that was what Ron and Hermione were remembered for, as Harry Potter's sex flunkies.

He looked at the window, staring at their reflections in the glare. How had they gotten into their mess? Why? What had been the point?

Ron rubbed the top of Harry's knee. "As soon as we get back to Hogsmeade, we'll corner Skeeter and make her confess."

Harry jerked out of Ron's reach; what would happen if someone peered into their compartment and saw? It was no wonder someone knew; they were not exactly secretive at every waking moment like they thought they were.

"People might notice." He whispered.

"Speaking of people noticing," Hermione shifted. "What are we going to do at the Burrow? Ron, your parents are busy and preoccupied, but they are not stupid."

"You'll sleep in Ginny's room and Harry will sleep in mine." Ron simply said. "They won't suspect a thing."

Hermione's eyes darkened at the suggestion. "I'm not talking about sleeping arrangements; isn't it written all over our faces? That we are guilty? That something is not right?"

Harry looked back into the window, staring at their reflections. He could imagine the words 'sinful', 'threesome', or 'adulterous' on their foreheads. Probably painted in blood.

He shuddered.

"I think George is our main concern." Ron said. "He notices everything, and with Fred gone, he's going to be up to no good twice as much as usual. He will constantly be sneaking up on people, playing pranks, and trying to embarrass us. And if he finds out, he'll tell Bill and Charlie, and Bill will tell Fleur, who will tell Mum, who will-"

Harry didn't want to picture it, and cut Ron off. "We get it."

"If it's written all over our faces when we look at each other, we just don't look at each other." Ron suggested.

Hermione snorted. "That is a terrible idea. We need to maintain eye contact not only with each other, but with those around us. Too much eye contact is equally a bad thing, however; it implies that we know little eye contact means lying, so we are trying to consciously reverse it, hoping no one will notice."

Harry blinked. "You get that, Ron?"

"Yeah." Ron brought his knees up to his chest. "Something about no eye contact, what I said."

**o-O-o**

The Burrow had a sense of timelessness about it. It hadn't changed significantly in the years Harry had known Ron; the run-down chicken shed was still there. The large oak tree hanging an isolated swing stood in the front garden. The house, mis-shapen and teetering, had not changed in the slightest; no rooms had been added or removed.

"It's beautiful." Hermione snuggled up against Ron as they stood, looking at the home.

Harry turned, not looking. For the sake of charades, he was not going to be intimate with Ron or Hermione at the Burrow. No kisses, hugs, cuddling, hand-holding, etc. He could do it, of course; he could go months without sex if he had to. He had gone nearly eighteen years without it; he could go a few days.

But it was torturous to watch Ron and Hermione together, and be unable to join in. He wanted to feel Ron's chin stubble against his cheek. He wanted to be the one to feel Hermione's soft skin. He longed to be sandwiched between them, sharing body heat in the chilly outdoors.

But he wasn't. He was by his lonesome, with a heating charm.

_And that's okay. You're not a girl. You don't need to be clingy. You don't need the physical affection from another person. You've got your fist, and that's good enough_.

It wasn't, though. Jerking off wouldn't help him sleep. Curling up next to Ron or Hermione would.

"Mum!" They walked inside the house, single-file. "Mum! I'm home!"

"Shush, Ron!" Percy walked in, holding his head high. Despite the fact that he had come back to the family after the War, he was still a pinhead, in Harry and Ron's opinion. "Mum is sleeping!"

Harry looked around the kitchen. The interior of the house was a far cry from the outside; it had changed in ways Harry had never expected.

The furniture was unmoved, and the wall hangings still there. The wall clock still hung, with Fred's hand still pointing towards 'lost'. The homemade braided rugs still covered the bare wooden floors. Homespun cloaks still hung on hooks near the back door.

But the table was not freshly scrubbed - there were piles of dishes on it. Food was stuck in the splinters of the wood. The counters also had piles of dishes on it; Harry counted fourteen empty Butterbeer bottles. The floor that normally shined was dull, smears of mud and unidentifiable grub stuck to it. The house that normally smelled of homemade bread, cinnamon, the smell of love, now smelled to Harry of dust, rotting food, spoilt milk, and decay; the smell of death.

"Sleeping?" Ron asked. "It's four o'clock! Is she sick?"

Hermione handed Harry her duffel, strode over to the dishes and rolled up her sleeves. "Where is Mr. Weasley?" She asked, taking control over the situation.

"At work. They are still taking care of the Lestrange house." Percy had is nose up in the air, but he didn't mention how Mr. Weasley's job at the Ministry at least had _some_ use. They all knew he was thinking it, but a clear improvement, he said nothing.

"Why is Mum sleeping?" Ron started up the spindly steps. "I'm going to go see what's wrong."

Ron was a very caring person, but lacked tact and intellect in some areas.

Harry grabbed Ron's arm. "No, Ron; she's just sad."

Ron frowned. "Still?"

Ginny walked down the stairs, holding a wooden tray. She had arrived home from school hours earlier than the trio, as Harry had needed to see that students all got safely off the train. "Yes, still, Ron. Haven't you noticed the lack of letters?"

"And the mothering all the letters have contained, I assume?" Percy plopped down in Mr. Weasley's chair. "God, Ron; are you so thick that you can't-"

"Stop." Harry commanded Percy, without thinking about how so few people ordered Percy around so. He looked over at Hermione, who was orchestrating the piles of dishes to clean. "You live here, Percy; who have you let the house come to such a mess? You know your mum is incapacitated."

Had Harry a mum who was ill, he would do everything in his power to help her. Even if she was just in bed, too sad to get up, he would try to do her work. He knew he would. When Aunt PEtunia fell ill seemingly every month, he made supper. Sure, Uncle Vernon usually made him, but he was happy to try to help.

And he had never liked Aunt Petunia.

Percy's eyes narrowed. "I am quite busy at the Ministry. And Dad hardly does anything to help."

Ginny grabbed the bags out of Harry's hands. "Yeah, and Dad isn't busy at all. He's the one at work right now, not you." She began up the stairs with Harry and Hermione's luggage.

Ron threw his bag by the back door. "Prick. What can I do, Hermione?"

"Music to a woman's ears; say that often enough, and we may have to get married." Hermione was elbow-deep in sudsy water at the sick. "Levitate those plates over to me, and clean the table. Harry, go catch me a chicken."

Harry felt the colour drain from his face. "You're going to... butcher a chicken?"

"No, I'm going to cook it; you're going to butcher it. Ron, don't break them!" Hermione coached Ron.

"I don't like chicken." Percy muttered from his chair.

They ignored him. "But... have you ever cooked a chicken?"

"No, but I've read about it; I'm sure it will go seamlessly. Go."

Harry had never killed another living thing who didn't deserve it. He had been known to levitate Death Eaters to great heights before dropping them, and had used Expelliarmus to kill Voldemort. But he had never used the Killing Curse before. He had never killed another innocent being, ever. And even if he used an axe like the Muggles did, the blood soaking into the feathers, and the guts...

"Look, Hermione; he's going to puke just thinking about it." Ron handed Harry the bucket he was banishing crumbs to. "I'll go do it."

Ron glared at Percy on his way outdoors. "Make yourself useful, or leave."

Harry concentrated on his work, grateful for Ron for taking over the job he could not bear. He also hoped Percy wasn't watching him too closely when he breathed in the scent of Hermione's hair when he brushed past her.

_Maybe Percy is the blackmailer. Maybe Percy found out... but why would he want Gryffindor to lose a match? Even as hypocritical as he is, he wouldn't want Gryffindor to lose a match... unless... unless he just wants Ron to look bad! Yeah, so he'll be the centre of attention again!_

He shook his head as he removed the grub from the kitchen floor. _Don't be ridiculous, Harry. You're paranoid - not everyone is a suspect._


End file.
